


Lonely Town

by Paeonia



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Chief Sousa, F/M, Gen, Unrequited Love, peggysous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paeonia/pseuds/Paeonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel Sousa wasn’t quite as thrilled with the aftermath of the Howard Stark case as everyone else seemed to be, but nobody asked him and he didn’t volunteer his opinion.</p><p>Daniel's promotion, his move to Los Angeles and all the practical problems they bring. Set after 1x08, "Valediction". References teasers for Season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May, 1946

The Stark case had ended splendidly — everyone agreed: Howard Stark exonerated, New York City saved, a dangerous Leviathan operative apprehended.... There had been an official letter of commendation from a U.S. Congressional Subcommittee, awarded after Jack Thompson’s testimony in Washington, and even talk of an increase to the SSR budget.

Daniel Sousa wasn’t quite as thrilled with the outcome of the case as everyone else seemed to be, but nobody asked him and he didn’t volunteer his opinion.  True, Howard Stark didn’t break into his own vault, but from what Carter had been able to piece together, he might as well have handed Dottie Underwood the key. Five dead SSR agents, another casualty from the 107th, three N.Y.P.D. police officers, and an entire theater of innocent people: a hundred deaths that might have been prevented if Howard Stark had kept his libido under control, or even just used a little common sense. New York City had been saved and Dr. Fennhoff had been captured, but the letter of commendation didn’t mention the agent who’d actually talked down Stark, saved New York,  and ultimately broken the case (Agent Margaret Carter), never mind the agent who’d subdued Fennhoff (some guy named Agent Daniel Sousa, not that anyone cared.) Sousa didn’t bother to read the transcript of Thompson’s testimony, so he didn’t know if Thompson had  bothered to acknowledge Carter or him or any of the agents by name. But in the end, it didn’t matter. If the Congressmen ended up remembering anyone’s name, it was going to be Thompson’s.

Through it all, Sousa had kept his head down and kept busy. There’d been plenty to do. The morning after… oh, God, what a horrible day that had turned out to be. At least he'd had some time to pull himself back together after Peggy turned him down before Thompson stopped by his desk. He’d rapped on the desk twice — “Sousa. Conference room. Bring everything you’ve got on the Stark case—” and headed off without a backwards glance.

When Sousa got to the conference room, the table was already strewn with files and papers. He lowered himself into a chair, as far away as he could get from where it looked like Thompson was sitting. “So what’s all this?” he asked.

“We need to come up with a story,” replied Thompson. He poured a cup of coffee, plunked it in front of Sousa, and refilled his own cup.

“What kind of story? The kind where one person takes the credit for an entire office’s work?”

Thompson did not look up from the table. His voice was cool and even. “Senators don’t take kindly to being corrected. Nothing I could have said would have made a diff —”

They both looked up as Peggy opened the door. “Agent Comden gave me your message?”

Thompson looked up. “Yeah. Have a seat.”

Sousa put on his poker face as Peggy sat down.

“We’re getting some visitors from Washington,” said Thompson.“My guess is they’ll be here in around ninety minutes. They’re going to debrief us. Which means we have about ninety minutes to figure out a way to present Carter’s work on the Stark case in a way that doesn’t get her fired again.”

“Oh, they won’t fire me,” said Peggy. “They can’t. I’m already fired.”

“Well, guess what, Carter? Chief never filed the paperwork. I _checked_. So you’re still on the payroll. I don’t want to get fired; you showed up, so I’m guessing you don’t want to get fired, and I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess Sousa doesn’t want to get fired either.”

“Why would I get fired?” Sousa asked. “ And by the way: I'm not going to lie.”

“Come on, Sousa! Help me out here. Nobody’s asking anyone to lie.” Jack rubbed his eyes. “I'm talking about just presenting the truth in the best possible way. For Chief’s sake, as well as Carter’s.”

Peggy flashed Sousa a look that seemed to say _please, leave it_. As if she still thought of him as a friend.

“I pulled Chief’s notes…” Thompson pushed a file forward. “And I started a timeline. What do you two have?”

By the time the Washington crowd arrived, they were ready. Thompson gave his report first, and then left with two of the big bosses to pay a call to Loretta Dooley. Meanwhile, Peggy was called to give her report.

They called Sousa shortly afterwards to a second room they’d taken over. It wasn’t bad. They asked him a lot of questions about his run-ins with Fennhoff and Dottie Underwood and a few standard questions about what he thought they could learn from the case. (To his relief, they didn’t ask him anything about that little chat with Peggy behind the L&L.) When they’d finished, they told him which agent they wanted to see next. As he left the room, he noticed that they’d opened up a third room and had started in on the scientists.

The rest of the day was grueling. He stayed at his desk and did his best to concentrate. He was still tired and stiff from the last couple of days; aspirin helped, once he got it down his sore throat. As for the other pain he was feeling… well, aspirin wouldn’t touch that. Alcohol might, but only for a while.

He’d been so _stupid_ asking her in the morning. If he’d just waited, he wouldn’t have looked so ridiculous and desperate — and he wouldn’t have had to sit there and stew in it all day after she said no.

At least she didn’t act as if she felt insulted or amused by his invitation. Or maybe she wasn’t showing it, which was fine; they still had to work together and besides, she had too much class for that. But she really didn’t seem put out. Or maybe he was just kidding himself.

He really did need to go to talk to Wyckoff that afternoon, close to quitting time; it wasn’t just making an excuse to be away from his desk when it was time for her to leave, so that she wouldn’t pass him on her way out the door. And he had to hand it to her, she didn’t blow her cover; she really did leave the moment her shift was over, as if she really was meeting someone. She even seemed to pause and look for him on her way out, as if to say, “see? I really do need to leave at 1700 sharp.” But maybe she didn’t; he only saw it out of the corner of his eye anyway.  By then he was deep in a discussion with Wyckoff and Henry, huddled over a map in that manner that clearly says _do not disturb_.

He worked late that night. He didn’t go out for drinks by himself or with anyone else. He just grabbed a quick bite and headed home.

The week crawled along. The people from Washington didn’t leave. That Saturday the big shots came with the New York agents to Chief Dooley’s funeral; Sousa counted it a small blessing that he didn’t have to ride with them, and that he was able to avoid riding with Carter.

On Monday Sousa was surprised to find that the Washington people were still there. He was even more surprised when, late in the morning, Thompson called him into the Chief’s office.

“Close the door, will ya?” he asked. Sousa closed the door and sat down.

“Just found out I have to go to Washington,” Thompson said. He was trying very, very hard to appear more nonchalant and less nervous and greedy. “They’re opening the Stark hearings back up, but with a change of direction, and they want to hear from us. I need to gather up some stuff here at the office and then go home and pack, and I want your help with two things: one, helping me get ready to face Congress and two, being in charge while I’m away.  Which means you need to be briefed….”

 _Peggy — no,_ Carter — _has seniority_ , thought Sousa, but of course that didn’t mean anything; he had seniority over Jack and that had never gotten him anywhere….

“Why me?” he asked.

Thompson gave him a quizzical look. “Why not you?”

 “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

Thompson made the announcement that afternoon, before he left. Sousa stayed at his own desk. He’d always despised the way Thompson would ostentatiously take over the Chief’s office if Dooley so much as went out for a haircut. And he was only Acting Acting Chief, and it was only for a few days, and that’s where he kept all his stuff, so why bother?

He quickly found out why he needed to bother when the Chief’s phone rang and he had to hurry to the office to pick it up. Carter had the presence of mind to quietly call downstairs and tell the switchboard to hold the call for him until he got there. When the call was over, he gave her a nod of thanks and went back to his desk to get the files he knew he’d need.

Once he’d settled in, he took a look around the office. It was a little difficult to get around in the small space, but it wasn’t as bad as the conference room, and once he made it behind the desk the chair was very comfortable. There was a wall behind his back — a break from the strange sense of being stared at that had been bugging him the last few days — and there were blinds that could be adjusted to control the view and screen out… distractions.

He had to admit it: He could get used to this.

Of course it wasn’t all cake and ice cream; he had his regular work and then the Chief work on top of that. There was extra Chief work these days; he was constantly being asked to come talk to the Washington people holed up in the briefing rooms. And of course, every day there was an astonishing number of things to sign. Carter came with an armful of files and clipboards towards the end of his second day.

When she knocked on the half-open door, he knew it was her before he looked up. (How was she able to do that, anyway? Even her knock was all her own.) He ignored the little flutter in his his stomach — he’d grown good at that over the months — and looked up.

“Carter, let me guess: you have papers that need a signature?”

“I’m afraid so. They really couldn’t wait, or I would have brought them tomorrow morning when your signature muscles were better rested.”

He uncapped his pen and started working his way through the stack, pausing occasionally to take notes on what he was signing.

“…And here’s the last of them.” He rocked the ink blotter and handed the stack back to her.

“Thank you, Chief Sousa.” She smiled. “It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it’s really Acting Acting Chief Sousa, and probably just for one more day. But it’s still kind of you to say so.”

“You’ve been putting in some long days, haven’t you, Acting Acting Chief?”

 “Goes with the territory. Remember how late Dooley would stay sometimes?”

“And you were there late enough to see him leave.”

He shrugged. Why was she not leaving?

“Well,” she said, “soon you’ll be able to put the burden of leadership back on Thompson’s capable shoulders — and with a clear conscience, since he’s so eager to accept it.”

“He’s welcome to it,” Sousa replied.  He opened the file he’d been working on back up. “But until that happy day….”

To his relief, Carter took the hint. “As you said: not much longer.” She turned at the door and looked back. “Thank you again, Daniel.”

He waited a polite interval and then closed the door.

 

Thompson returned to the office Friday morning, with a head so swollen Sousa wondered how he’d gotten his hat to fit. His testimony had gone well, Congressmen impressed, SSR was looking good on the Hill…. Well, no, he hadn’t gotten to meet the President, the schedule hadn’t permitted it, but Senator Webster said not to wander too far from the phone…. Letter of commendation…. Talk of a budget increase for the SSR…. “And who knows? Maybe there’ll even be room in the budget for some bonuses.”

Sousa kept his face neutral. Over his three days as Acting Acting Chief, he’d thought of a dozen even more important needs for the New York SSR. Late yesterday afternoon, the Washington people had called him in and asked for his opinions, and he’d shared them pretty freely.

Peggy — _Carter_ , he reminded himself, _Carter_ — had suddenly appeared at his elbow. As the briefing broke up and Jack headed to talk to the Washington people, she quietly clucked her tongue. “Acting Chief Thompson is being a little premature, don’t you think?”

Sousa looked up.

“Hinting at bonuses when the Congress hasn’t even released the money. And even if they do, does he really think he’ll have carte blanche to spend it as he pleases?”

“You’re right,” said Sousa. “It’ll go through Washington first. We might not see a penny. Those promises… he’s picking up bad habits from those politicians.”

She chuckled. “I do hope we see _some_ of it. We’re short-handed, and I still haven’t given up my hopes for a ladies’ locker room. I dropped a hint to our visitors; I hope they take it.”

“That and cough up the money to make it happen, right?”

“Always so practical, Acting Acting Chief.” She smiled and went back to her desk.

It was as if he’d never said anything to her. It was kind, and it made it a little easier. But not much.

Giving report to Thompson wasn’t too awful — no snide comments, no second-guessing the decisions Sousa had made during his brief tenure. Thompson did make a few little jokes about how difficult it was to be Chief, and how glad Sousa must be to hand the reins back over. Sousa decided to not play along. Let him twitch. Thompson had been decent enough to his face recently, but Sousa knew better than to trust him completely.

He went back to his old desk and tried to get back to work, but his thoughts refused to stay in step. He struggled on until lunchtime. Thompson swanned away with some of the Washington people; most of the other agents trickled out as well. He unwrapped his sandwich (egg salad) to eat at his desk and enjoy the quiet. How nice it would be if he could climb up in a tall tree, so he could think in peace and get away even further from this understated din of typewriters, telephones, and traffic. He hadn’t been home since Christmas; maybe it was time for a break.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea: Just get completely away from the office, even for a day or two.

Because the job… the job itself was satisfying. He was drawing on the skills he’d learned in the war and putting them to use in new ways, and he was learning every day. Even at the beginning, when he’d sometimes been treated as one step up from a file clerk, he could still remind himself that he was an SSR agent, that even the most trivial task was part of something important. He was serving his country, protecting people.

No, it wasn’t his job that was driving him crazy. It was the _office_. It had been difficult at first, though he’d expected that; a lot of awkward silences and averted gazes, especially back when he still needed two crutches. But he had a thick skin and he let it grow thicker, and over time, it had gotten better, the other men grew used to him and to the idea of a one-legged agent.

But Thompson…. Thompson had gotten under his skin right away. Sousa had met guys like him before — guys who reeked of ambition, who knew how get in good with bosses and then lord it over everyone else, who always seemed to need to have someone to pick on. Unlike many of those guys, Thompson seemed to have some real accomplishments, and he never bragged about them. (Not that he needed to; Dooley kept mentioning them.) He wasn’t fake, but there was still something of an arrogant shavetail about him, something brittle and false.

Sousa knew that he, himself, would never be top dog at the office. He’d come to terms with it; it was just the way things were. But the way Thompson had climbed so quickly to the top of the pile, as if he just assumed he belonged there, as if he were stepping on stairs and not faces…. He could grit his teeth and work with Jack, but he didn’t like him and he didn’t trust him. And really, besides a Navy Cross, all-American looks, and a right leg, what did Thompson have that he didn’t? It’s not like he’d spent the war sitting on his ass.

No. He’d always hated it when Thompson was in charge, and he did not want to work in an office where someone like Jack Thompson was in charge.

And this whole business with Peggy — with _Carter_ — was only making it worse.  What a fool he’d made of himself — did _everyone_ know? and then Thompson calling him out like that in front of the Chief? _Jerk_ …. With a pang, he remembered that that was the last time he ever saw Chief Dooley.

And if they all knew, Peggy must have known, too. She wasn’t stupid. She must have. Her words from the interrogation room had been haunting him for days: _The girl on the pedestal_ …. He knew she’d been trying to rattle them, take control of the interview, just like they were. But it still hurt.

Because if that’s how she saw his feelings for her — his respect for her, his growing affection for her, his admiration for a woman utterly worthy of admiration — then he had no chance at all. Was it his leg? He doubted it, she’d never seemed to even notice it. He wasn’t a college man; was he just too rough around the edges for her? Maybe she just liked taller men, or men with light-colored hair, or men with smaller noses whose ears didn’t stick out. Maybe to her, he was the poor sap nursing a hopeless crush on a woman out of his league. And maybe she was out of his league, but he wasn’t a sap. He knew his value, too.  She wasn’t on a pedestal, but wherever it was she was standing, there was no room for him.

And he was going to have to live with that, and come in to the office every day, and work with her, and wait for that soft spot in his heart to toughen up and grow a callus. And meanwhile, the others were going to figure out that she’d turned him down. He did not want their ridicule, he did not want their pity, and he did not want their comfort. So there was going to be that to deal with as well.

He looked up. While he’d been stewing, the others had been coming back in from lunch. He felt that sense of being stared at again, and it bothered him more than ever. He grabbed his crutch and stalked off in search of coffee.

One of the Washington men met him at the coffee station. “Agent Sousa!” His voice was friendly but low. “Perfect timing. Agent Guilford wants to speak with you. Come have your coffee with us.”

“All right.” It wasn’t as if he could say no. He put a saucer on top of his cup and headed off down the hall.

The agent who’d been sent to fetch him opened the door for him. When he entered, Guilford stood up to greet him. “Agent Sousa!” He shook Sousa’s hand and introduced the other agents seated around the table.

“Well,” said Guilford, “I don’t need to tell you that it’s been a dramatic couple of months for the New York office. We’ve been up here to review the Stark case, as well as doing some other routine reviews.”

Sousa nodded.

Guilford leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been reviewing case files and personnel files.” He held up a folder; it was labeled SOUSA, DANIEL ANTONIO and stamped CONFIDENTIAL. “And we’ve been impressed by what we’ve been finding. It’s more unusual than you think to find an agent who has the intelligence to identify a lead, the initiative to pursue it, the tenacity to follow it through, _and_ enough knowledge of the alphabet to be able to file it properly. And then to find all those qualities in an agent who’s also an experienced leader?

“New York isn’t the only office that’s short a Chief. Agent Norman’s accepted a promotion to Washington, so now Los Angeles needs a new Chief as well.” He looked at Sousa and smiled. “We’d like to offer that position to you.”

Sousa stared, stunned. “You want me to be Chief of the Los Angeles office.”

“Yes. You can take the weekend to think about it, of course.”

Sousa’s mind raced. Los Angeles — the other end of the country, it was so far, he wouldn’t be able to hop a train for a quick visit home — but he hadn’t been doing that anyway, had he? He hadn’t been home in months —and besides, it was 1946 and he wasn’t broke: He could fly home.

— And there was no snow and ice in Los Angeles, no worrying about people not shoveling their damn sidewalks — maybe he could fly his father to Los Angeles for a winter vacation —

— And no more taking orders from Jack Thompson. _He’d_ be back in command, he’d done it before and he knew he could do it again, and he would do it the right way, and treat his agents the way they ought to be treated —

 _— Peggy has seniority_ , something reminded him. But maybe she’d already turned it down. And it was none of her business, they were offering the job to him. His opinion didn’t matter to her, she’d said it. So why should her opinion matter to him?

 

_He knew his value._

 

“No need. I’ll take it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news of Sousa's promotion is announced.

Sousa spent the next hour holed up with Guilford and the other Washington men, discussing the transition. He would need to get his current work in New York ready to hand off to other agents. He would need to start being briefed on his new duties. He would need to pack. And he wanted to visit his family before he left for California.

“It’ll be tight,” said Guilford. “We want to get you out there right away so you have some time for Norman to learn you the ropes before he leaves for Washington. But if you hustle, and if you don’t mind staying in a hotel for a few days in L.A., you could get out of here in a week, week and a half, get in a few days’ visit, and fly out…” he stabbed the calendar with his finger “…here, at the latest. Your folks are near Boston, right? So you take a sleeper out of Boston, arrive bright and early Monday morning. You’ll get a relo allowance, so go ahead and spring for the berth.”

One of the other agents spoke up. “We’d better hurry up and make that announcement so the Washington team can prep.”

Guilford looked at the clock. “You’re right. Go tell Thompson to get ready. And since Sousa’s not going to Washington….” He looked at a list, crossed something out, and circled something else. “That means Wyckoff. Might as well tell you, Thompson’s staying on as New York Chief. He doesn’t know you’re going yet. He picked a team to go to Washington for a few days, go shopping for some new agents, ” Guilford explained. “Your name was on his short list for the team, but you need to get ready to go to L.A.”

They went back to the bullpen; Thompson already had everyone standing around waiting for them. As Sousa went back to his desk, Peggy — _Carter_ , he reminded himself — caught his eye despite his best efforts and gave him a smile, a smile that seemed to say _I’ve got a lovely secret_. He raised his eyebrows — _oh_? — and perched on the edge of his desk, facing Guilford and the Washington team. His own secret was bobbing around just below his ribcage: no anxiety, just anticipation.

“Agent Guilford,” called Jack. “We hear you have some news for us.”

 _Only two more weeks, and not even that_ , thought Sousa. It occurred to him that Carter might not the only one who might be miffed at his getting the promotion; some of the others might also resent seeing the office pity hire getting promoted over themselves. Well… too bad.

“We do,” said Guilford. He blabbed a bit about why they were there — internal review — thank you for your hospitality and consideration, they’d be done next week — fine work done by the New York office — unfortunate loss of brave colleagues — Chief Dooley — moving forward….

Finally he got to his point. “We’re pleased to announce that we have chosen the permanent Chief of the New York office. Congratulations, Chief Thompson.” Applause rippled around the room as Thompson came forward to shake hands.

“Now, one of Jack Thompson’s last duties as Acting Chief was to select candidates for a detail team to Washington, to help identify new agents for the New York office. Since he was Acting Chief, we had to confirm them.

“Agent Carter: You’ll be heading up the team. ” Thompson looked surprised.

“Agents Comden and Wyckoff will go with you,” continued Guilford. Thompson glanced over to Sousa; Sousa kept his face neutral.

Thompson straightened up and addressed the room. “So if you have any recommendations, pass them to the team now; they’re leaving first thing tomorrow.”

“We have one more announcement.” Guilford held up a hand. “As we said, you’re going to be getting agents. But alas, the Old Man giveth and the Old Man taketh away. Once we had a Chief for the New York office, we needed to find one for the L.A. office, since they’re about to be down a Chief too."

Daniel fixed his eyes on the woodwork just above and behind Guilford’s left shoulder.

“Congratulations, Chief Daniel Sousa.” Murmurs and applause rippled around the room as he slid off his desk and went up for his handshake. As Guilford shook Sousa’s hand, he muttered, “Grab a coffee and come on back with us, we’ve got more work to do.”

Thompson swooped in to shake his hand and give him a slap on the shoulder. “You sneaky bastard,” he said in a low voice. “Congratulations!” He raised his voice and called, “Carter, Comden, Wyckoff! Office!”

Before Sousa could steal a glance back at Peggy, he was caught up in a wave of handshakes and congratulations. When he surfaced, Thompson already had her corralled in the office with the rest of the Washington team.

It was easier this way anyway. He poured a cup of coffee and headed on down the hall. When he entered the conference room, Guilford slid a couple of briefing folders across the table to where he’d been sitting before.

“Make a list of what you need to do before you get out of here, and then you can get started on those,” he said. “We’re going to wire Norman the news. You know anyone out there? No? Want ‘em to find you a place for when you first get there?”

“Sure, if….”

“You’re not married, right?”

“No, no.”

“Makes it even easier, then. Let Norman know,” he said to one of the other agents. The agent finished writing and got up to go send the message. Sousa took his pencil out of his pocket and started to make his list.

They brought Thompson in a couple of hours later. “So congratulations and all that, Sousa,” he said as he sat down, “but couldn’t you take a few days to go to Washington first? I was really counting on you for that team.”

“Schedule’s set and your Washington team’s fine the way it is,” said Guilford. “You have ‘em briefed?”

“Briefed and on their way home to pack.”

“Good. Sousa’s made a list of what he’s working on, with some recommendations on for the hand-off.” Sousa slid the list across the table to Thompson.

“Hope Leviathan doesn’t find out we’re down seven agents next week,” Thompson groused.

“Well then keep your mouth shut and look busy.” Guilford stood up. “C’mon, let’s lock up and take the new Chiefs out to dinner.”

They took the new Chiefs over to the Hudson Grand. Sousa felt a little awkward when Guilford led a toast — “To our two newest Chiefs!” — but the moment passed.

“We should swear you in first thing Monday,” Guilford said to Thompson. “You’ll just have to schedule the dinner for later. It’s a tradition — well, maybe the SSR isn’t old enough for it to be a tradition — a custom? A habit? Well, it’s a thing we’re trying to keep going, have a nice dinner when a new Chief is sworn in.  The wives come; bring a couple of family members if you like; say nice things about the old Chief, maybe razz him a little….” Guilford nodded to Sousa. “Norman and his group’ll set it up.” He leaned back a little as the waiter put down his bowl of soup.

Dinner was easier than Sousa had expected. There wasn't much talk of business except in the most general terms — an eavesdropper might have taken them for salesmen — and as the evening wore on, he grew more and more comfortable.

Still, he wanted to get home. He decided to make a break for it after dessert and coffee, as the group started to move to the lounge for tobacco and drinks.

“Sure you can't stay a little longer?” asked Guilford

“I wish I could, but I really should get an early start tomorrow….”

They let him go with a few more words of congratulations and promises to see him in the morning. Thompson caught up to him on his way to the door.

“It’s not too late,” he wheedled. “You _sure_ you don't wanna go to Washington? With Carter?”

 _Dammit, Thompson_ …. At least this time he'd had the courtesy to keep his voice down and not bray it out to everyone in the room.

“Sorry, Jack. I've gotta start packing.” He started moving towards the door. “Have a good evening.”

 

Back at his apartment, he closed the door behind him and looked around. Where to even start? He wanted to think — he wanted to shower first and then think. He checked his watch: he wanted to shower first and then call home and then think. And a nightcap in there somewhere sounded good as well.

But first, he was thirsty. He went to the kitchen sink for a glass of water. He’d just set the glass to drain when a sharp knock sounded at the door.

 _Who —?_   Telegram? One of the neighbors? Well, whoever it was was impatient — the knock sounded at the door again —

He opened the door and stared, astonished. It was Howard Stark.

“Good evening, Agent Sousa,” said Stark.

Sousa nodded. “Mr. Stark.”

Stark waited a moment before he resorted to prompting Sousa. “May I… come in?”

Sousa hesitated a moment — the Murphy bed was down, he never bothered putting it up (at least it was made) — but finally he stood back and opened the door. Stark strolled in, his hands in his pockets, and glanced about the studio apartment with an air of appreciation.

“You’ve got a nice little spot here,” he remarked. “It’s almost a shame you’ll be moving soon.” He extended his hand. “Congratulations, Chief Sousa.”

“Thanks, but how… Did Agent Carter tell you?”

“Peg’s not my only contact in the SSR. I actually haven’t talked to her yet, I just got back in town. She left for Washington yet?”

Sousa shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her before she left the office.”

“When do you start in L.A.?”

 _And how is that your business?_ thought Daniel. “Two weeks from Monday,” he found himself saying.

“So maybe I will catch you.” He opened his wallet and handed Sousa a couple of cards. “I’ll look you up once you’ve settled in. I have some, ah… business interests in that area of the country that I’m looking to develop, so I expect I’ll be spending more time in L.A. in the coming months.

“Which reminds me….” He pulled something else out of his wallet: an envelope. He handed it to Daniel.

“Go ahead and open it,” he said. “That number’s for Mel Goodwin, up at Berkeley. He heads up a lab there. I met him working on Project Rebirth. Give him a call if you get a chance, he’d be pleased to meet you. You two might be able to… help each other out.”

Sousa looked up from the paper.

Stark looked impatient. “You do work for the Strategic Scientific Reserve, don’t you? Seems to me that it might be a good idea to meet some scientists.

“Mel’s in physiology. After Rebirth, he got a big government grant for research in human biomechanics, studying up on the human arm and leg.… build better prosthetics.”

“Thanks,” said Sousa. “I guess I didn’t know referrals were your style.”

“I may be a genius, but I only have 24 hours in a day, same as everyone else. And like I said, when I met Mel we were both there in support of Dr. Erskine’s work.” His face fell for a moment; Sousa felt like a heel as he remembered: Dr. Erskine murdered; Steve Rogers lost….

 “Of course,” mused Stark, “it’s a government contract, which means a barrel of pork for the lowest bidder. And Mel’s not an engineer; I’m sure whatever he comes up will have some… room for improvement,” he added with a smirk. Sousa felt like he was beginning to understand why Peggy — _Carter_ — seemed to always defend him, and why she always seemed so exasperated about it. _He may be a great many things, but he’s not a traitor.…_ Hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago….

He yanked his attention back to the moment. “…once I get a lab set up,” Stark was saying. “L.A.’s a great town, can’t wait to show it to you. Norman’s all right, but it’ll be good to have you out there. Peggy speaks very highly of you, you know; how did she put it? Oh yes: ‘Less dim than the rest of them.’ She even told Jarvis she could just about stand you. Coming from her? That is high praise, my friend.”

He glanced around the apartment again. “We should get you a decorator once you get out there,” he mused, almost to himself. “Or maybe Ana; she’s not in the trade but she’s got great taste….

“Well, congratulations again!” He slapped Sousa on the arm, as if they were old cronies. “Have a good trip — see you in Hollywood!”

“See you in Hollywood,” Sousa heard himself saying. He saw Stark to the door.

Once he’d turned the deadbolt again, he took a deep breath. Maybe he did want that nightcap right away.

 

He poured his drink and left it on the nightstand. He showered first, as he’d planned. Then he sat down on one of the two chairs in the apartment, picked up the phone receiver, and dialed the long-distance operator.

He waited as the operators connected his call. Finally his father picked up. The operator announced the call and dropped off.

“Daniel? Is that you? Is everything all right?”

Daniel chuckled. “It’s me, Pai, everything’s fine —”

“—Good, good. It’s always good to hear from you, of course, but you know, the tolls are much lower on Sunday —”

“I know. I do have some news, though, and I wanted to tell you right away.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve gotten a promotion.”

“That’s fantastic! Congratulations!”

Daniel grinned. “Thanks, Pai.”

“Can you… say anything about it?”

“It’s big. I’ll be Chief of a city office. The only thing is… it’s in Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles! ….Oh.”

“Yeah.” He heard his father pulling a chair over to sit down, and felt a wrench of regret. “I know. It’s a long way, I wasn’t crazy about that, but I just… it’s a big opportunity, I can’t pass this up.”

“Of course not. No, of course you can’t. Daniel, I am so happy for you. I know you’ve been working hard, and I’m glad you’re getting the recognition you deserve. You’re going to do great.”

Daniel smiled.

“So when….?” his father asked.

“I start two weeks from Monday.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. I’m going to take a few days to wrap up here, and then… I’d like to come for a few days, if that’s all right.”

His father scoffed. “ _If_. Get over here.”

“Thanks. I was thinking I could fly out of Boston on that Sunday night.”

“So you’ll need a ride to the airport…. Do you need any help packing?”

“I wouldn’t turn it down.”

“I’m working tomorrow, so I’ll see what I can do. Maybe Pete can help us, I’ll talk to him too — oh, do you mind if I share the news?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“When do you think you’ll be ready to pack?”

“I’m hoping Thursday; Friday at the latest. How about I call on Sunday?”

“Sure, I should know more by then.”

“So how is everyone? Is Tillie around?”

“Tillie’s over watching the kids, Ines and Pete are out. We’re all doing fine here; we’ll be looking forward to seeing you.”

“I can’t wait. Say hi to everyone for me, okay? And I’ll call back Sunday evening.”

“We’ll talk to you then. I’m very happy for you.”

“Thanks, Pai. Talk to you soon.”

“Good-bye.”

He hung up the phone. Even though he hadn’t been home very often, it had felt good knowing that he could hop a train and be there in just a few hours.  Now he would be thousands of miles away… again… but there’d been no question: He could not pass this up.

He reminded himself that he was not going to fall asleep in the chair tonight. He scooted to the front edge of the cushion, grabbed his crutches with his right hand and the arm of the chair with his left, and pushed himself up. Maybe in his new place he could get something a little more comfortable, he thought.

He finished his evening routine the same way he did every night: doing his stretches, taking care of his prosthetic, laying out clothes for the next day, setting his alarm, climbing into bed, and saying his rosary on the black beads the chaplain once gave him.

And, just like every night now, he was not even one decade in before thoughts of Peggy Carter started to drift about the edges of his mind. He wasn’t sure what to do with that; he was trying so hard to stop thinking about her, but…. It was as if she’d found some crack in his defenses, some kind of loophole to cleverly exploit: after all, you couldn’t just refuse to pray for someone, could you? So just like every night, he prayed for her intentions; and just like every night, those drifting thoughts would not be satisfied until he gave her a whole decade. And no vague _for Carter_ , either, they insisted his being specific; tonight it was _for a safe trip to Washington for Peggy_ _(and the others)._

The thought came back to him as he put the rosary away: What if he had gone on that trip?

It would be awful, he reminded himself: Awkward and tense and awful. He picked up his drink and took a sip. No, it was better this way, and he could spend some time at home before he flew out.

Flying out… that would be something in itself, he’d never flown on a civilian airliner before. It would be a far cry from the last flight he took; that had been a kind of sleeper, too, but instead being tucked into a cozy little berth, he’d been lying on a litter suspended from the wall of a C-54 Skymaster. (And he hadn’t gotten much sleep.) That was barely a year and a half ago.

And what would it be like to get off the plane and see palm trees? What would L.A. be like? He had no idea, he’d never been there or even thought about it all that much. And yet here he was, getting ready to pack up and go, after having thought over the decision for all of four seconds.

He chuckled a little and took another sip of his drink. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He couldn’t believe he’d decided so quickly. But he knew he’d made the right call, he knew it, he felt absolutely sure. What an opportunity! Once he might have second-guessed it — why were they offering this to _him_? — but now he wasn’t worried, he knew it didn’t matter. What mattered would be what he made of it.

He let his mind run over work: finishing up in New York, picking up in L.A…. It was good that he’d have a couple of weeks with Norman before he left; that should make for a nice, smooth handoff. He found himself thinking about Chief Dooley again….

He’d have to pack his things, of course, though that wouldn’t take long; his place was tiny and furnished, and he hadn’t had the time (or interest, really) in doing much with it. Was housing still as tight in L.A. as it seemed to be everywhere else? There were a lot of men home from the war who were still having a hard time finding a place.

Of course, a lot of them were trying to find a place for themselves and their wives and families, and he didn’t exactly have that problem. He could make do with a studio — as long as it wasn’t a third-floor walk-up. But if the L.A. office was going to find a place for him… he wondered if they knew, or if he should drop them a hint.

That would be something he’d have to get ready for: how would the L.A. office react to having a one-legged Chief? Maybe if he just came out and said something, that would help; he’d have to ask Guilford about how much they knew….

He just couldn’t get away from it, could he? He sighed and looked down at his leg. Somehow, it managed to factor itself into pretty much anything and everything he did or even put his mind to.  He’d never be able to make a completely fresh start someplace, not with this, and it brought its own long list of things to worry about. Where would he get his prosthetic serviced? Would he be able to do it at Muroc Airfield or one of the Coast Guard stations, or would he have to go to San Diego?

And how would he get there? Was it as easy to get around in California as it was around here? But it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for him to depend on cabs and street cars. He was just going to have to buckle down and get a car — and get comfortable driving it. A new car.... that could be exciting to think about….

A new car; a fresh start. He took a drink. There wouldn't be any completely fresh start for him, not with the visible damage he carried: He'd never pass for shiny and new again, he was very definitely something from the scratch-and-dent lot, and he might really look out of place in sleek, gleaming L.A.. But maybe…. He cautiously opened the door to his imagination, and laughed a little at himself as he pictured a car lot, with salesmen showing ladies around, some of them in mink coats and sequined gowns, but one of them coming over to look at the scratch-and-dent cars…. So did that make him a blue car or a green car? How silly. He looked down at his glass — too much? They’d had champagne and then Burgundy at dinner; he’d been careful, he always had to be, he was still learning his new limits and tipsy didn’t work well on one leg — but really, was it going to his head? Well, even if it was, he could celebrate a little — he took another sip — all right, then, blue, with a great big scrape running down the passenger side….

And who comes over to look at scratch-and-dent cars, anyway? Probably nobody from the mink coat set…. A cloth coat, then; something practical, maybe something brown or blue, or gray. He suddenly thought of the paper dolls his sister played with when they were little: This really was getting ridiculous. But it was something new and amusing to think about, so he kept going. Glasses? Maybe…. Blonde hair? Brunette? He went with brunette. Probably nothing too elaborate; he had a notion those roll hairdos were a lot of work. So just curls then, those were pretty.  He skipped the hat (too confusing). She’d need a bag – he added a simple black one, and a dress under the gray coat, nothing too flashy, maybe blue or purpleish….

And suddenly she was looking up and smiling politely and saying _Maybe another time, all right? I’ve got to meet a friend…._ And he was furiously scrubbing the scene from his mind and wondering how long would it take — for God’s sake, how long would it take?

The sooner he got out of New York, the better.

He finished his drink and turned out the light.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's starting to sink in now: it's already time for Daniel to make his first decision as Chief.

So perhaps he _hadn’t_ had too much to drink, Sousa thought the next morning. His tongue was where it belonged instead of stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he didn’t have a headache…. which was good, because when he entered the switchboard room to get to the elevator, the switchboard ladies greeted him with such enthusiasm, and at such high frequencies, that if he’d shown up even slightly hung over his skull would have shattered. “Chief Sousa! Congratulations!” they’d squealed. “Take us with you to Hollywood!” He didn’t bother wondering how they knew — they knew _everything,_ they always did.

“I’ll let you know if I have any openings,” he said with a smile. Sally unlocked the elevator — it must be Rose’s day off, he thought — and he headed up to start his last week at the New York office.

He’d been at his desk a couple of hours when his phone rang. He picked up. “Sousa.”

“It’s Guilford. Come on down to Room 4 for a few minutes, will you? Be casual.”

Well, that was odd. “Sure thing,” he said. He hung up the phone, locked his files in his drawer, and got up from his desk. The few agents who were in that day did not look up as he left the bullpen.

Guilford was waiting for him, and closed the door and pulled the shade as Sousa sat down. He  poured a cup of coffee for Sousa, and topped off his own cup.

“Thanks for coming down, Chief Sousa,” he said. “The others will be in shortly. I wanted to brief you a little more about the situation in Los Angeles. This conversation stays in this room. Ears only.

“Recently, an Agent in the New York office was… let’s just say not following policy in investigating a case, and concealing these actions from the rest of the SSR.

“ _You_ were able to identify this Agent. You promptly and independently conducted an objective investigation, and gathered evidence of her activities. As it turns out, this Agent was working in the interests of public safety and of justice for a private citizen. But if she hadn’t? Well, who knows what disasters your actions may have prevented?”

Guilford took a sip of his coffee. “You think there’s money in New York? L.A. will spin your head. Just… crazy amounts of money, _piles_ of money. And it’s not just Hollywood. There’s research out there going like gangbusters, which means patents and government contracts.  And people know people, and those people know other people, and everybody’s trying to get an angle.

“Some of the higher-ups have been getting a funny feeling about L.A.. Nothing they can put their finger on; we can’t even say ‘this happened and that happened.’ It’s more like… let’s say you’re flipping a coin and you call heads, and it comes up tails just a _little_ more often than seems right.

“Norman, we think, is clean; it was time for him to come to Washington anyway. He’s not taking any agents with him. Oh, by the way, if there’s anyone here you want to take with you let me know as soon as you can. Unless it’s an agent, in which case the answer’s no.

“It could be something; it could be nothing. But we’re counting on you to bring a fresh pair of eyes and that clear head —”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Time’s up,” said Guilford. “The others will be back soon. You go ahead first.”

 

Sousa got a lot done that day, so much that he decided to not go in to the office at all on Sunday. He spent it as his last free day in New York. He slept late, went to the High Mass at St Patrick’s Cathedral and stayed for the entire organ postlude, had a nice lunch, and spent the afternoon at the Met. On the ride home, the cabbie took a route through Central Park; Sousa looked out the window at the trees and the green grass and people and the the ducks with their ducklings. He had not seen much of the Park. There was a lot of New York he hadn’t seen yet, or seen as anything other than an agent. He hadn’t had a lot of time to explore. Maybe it would be different in L.A.. Maybe he’d find someone to explore the city with.

Back in his neighborhood, he had dinner at the usual place and then headed back to his apartment. He showered, put out his clothes for the next day, and called home.

His father had good news: he would come down on the train on Thursday to help him pack. His brother-in-law Pete would be able to drive down on Friday to help them finish packing and shipping, and take them all back home when they were done. Sousa felt bad about dragging them down to New York, but he knew the work would go much faster if he had help. They talked a little more about their plans for that weekend, and for Sousa’s week at home, before they said goodnight.

Sousa looked around the room. This was probably the last Sunday evening he would spend here. It was growing more real all the time.

 

Rose was back at the switchboard when he came in on Monday morning. “Good morning, Chief Sousa,” she said with a smile. “So you’re leaving us for California. You sure we can’t come with?”

“I don’t know if I’d have any place to put you! Besides, what would Chief Thompson do without you?”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ he’d do _just fine_ ,” she said. Sousa chuckled.

“But seriously,” she said, her voice a little lower. “My sister’s out in San Diego with her husband, and my parents are moving out there to be near them. So if you ever do have any openings….”

“I’ll keep it in mind, I promise,” he said.

She smiled again and summoned the elevator.

 

Sousa spent the morning handing off some cases. After lunch, he was working at his desk when the phone rang. It was Rose.

“Los Angeles office for you. They want to know if you have some time now or if they should set an appointment for later.”

“No, I can… I can talk to them now.”

He took a quick glance around. The desks were filling back in after lunch, and Thompson was in his office with the door open.  As if hearing his thoughts, Rose spoke up. “Do you want to take the call…. someplace a little quieter?”

“Yes please. Let me check Room 4 — just give me a minute to get down there.” He grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil, locked his desk, and headed down the hall. The room was empty. He closed the door, grabbed the phone, and settled in.

“Thanks, Rose, I’m ready.”

“All right.” Her voice took on an unnaturally clear tone and cadence. “New York, connected, Chief Sousa on the line.” His stomach jumped a little hearing his new title being used in earnest. “Los Angeles, go ahead.”

“Los Angeles, connected. Miss Clemens calling from the Los Angeles Office for Chief Sousa.”

Sousa swallowed. “Chief Sousa speaking.”

“Chief Sousa? This is Carmen Clemens.” Two faint clicks sounded as the operators left the call. “I’m the office manager for the L.A. SSR. We’re looking forward to meeting you! Chief Norman will be on in a minute, but first — Agent Guilford said you might like us to help find a place for you to stay when you first get here?”

“That would be real helpful. This’ll be my first time in Los Angeles, and I don’t know anybody there. Well, except you now.”

She laughed. “We’re happy to help. Tell you what: there’s a nice hotel not far from the office. We can make a reservation there for you for your first week, and you can check out early or extend it if you need to.”

“Are we talking nice as in clean? Or nice as in the Ritz?”

She laughed again. “It’s not the Ritz, but it’s certainly clean, and we can charge it against your relocation allowance. Agent Guilford said you’re single?”

There was a hint of warmth in her voice, and the most delicate hint of batted eyelashes. Sousa felt the tips of his ears growing warm. “Yeah, I’m batching it. ”

“For now, anyway. All right, I’ll go ahead and make that reservation.”

“Thank you, Miss Clemens. Oh, one more thing.” He steeled himself; he’d been hoping to put the topic off for a while. “So this nice hotel — what’s it like? Is it one of those cutie-pie little walkup places?”

“A walkup? Oh, goodness no, this is Los Angeles. No, I’d say it’s more medium size, but it’s completely modern.”

“Thanks, I was just curious. Some of the smaller places around here still are. You know how it is in New York.” And if she didn’t, he was pretty sure she’d pretend she did.

“Of course. I’ll go ahead and make the arrangements, and I’ll wire you the information. We’ll keep in touch. Here’s Chief Norman.”

“Sousa? Avery Norman. Congratulations, big step up for you! Looking forward — excuse me —” He covered the receiver, but Sousa could still hear him calling across his office: “No, that’s good, Carmen. Yeah, hold my calls. And close the door, will ya? Thanks.” He returned to Sousa. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to meeting you, Guilford had a lot of good things to say about you.” He seemed to take a deep breath. “And just to get it out there, he told me about your leg. I haven’t said anything to the office; you can tell me later how you want to handle that. I heard Carmen saying something about walkups? Don’t worry about the hotel, it’s got an elevator. But here…. Chief’s office is on the second floor. We’ve got a freight elevator, though,” he added apologetically.

“So it’s there if anyone needs it. And I can do stairs,” said Sousa.

“Well, that’s good, you’re going to have enough on your plate. When are you getting out here?”

Sousa outlined the plan.

“So if you’re flying out here, what about your car?” asked Norman.

“You mean they won’t let me check it with my suitcase? No, no; I don’t have one; I haven’t needed it so far.”

“Well, this ain’t Manhattan, so you’re going to need one. Put it on your shopping list. Have you bought your ticket yet? No? You don’t have anyone in charge of the travel? You’re _kidding_ me. Well, maybe we just travel more. All right, go to a travel agent, pick out your flight, and have ‘em call Carmen.” He gave Sousa the cover phone number and talked some more about the details: berth okay, first class no, cab reimbursable….

They talked over a few more practical details. “And then there’s one other thing,” said Norman. “Part of the reason I wanted to call you today is… well, I hate to do this but you’re going to need a new office manager. Carmen’s going to Washington too. We’ve got a couple of girls here you could think about promoting — Carmen and I can tell you about that once you get here — but I wanted to tell you right away in case you’ve got someone you want to bring along. If you can get her here early enough Carmen can train her in.”

“Thanks for the alert,” said Sousa. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“All right then. Good talking to you, Sousa. Let’s talk on Wednesday, all right? Same time?”

“Same time. Thanks, Chief Norman.”

He hung up the phone. Instead of trying to make Carter be a Carmen, he thought, why hadn’t Dooley just hired a Carmen? Maybe he should pass the idea along to Thompson: hire an actual secretary.

He tapped his fingers on the table. Maybe he’d better wait before giving Thompson any ideas; take care of himself first. He picked up the phone again.

“Rose? Can you get away for a few minutes and meet me in Room 4? Thanks. And... be casual."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get as much Lonely Town up as I can before the premiere, so I'm going for shorter chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel's last day of work at the SSR. So long, Thompson!
> 
> Good-bye, Peggy.

Rose hurried off to start filling out the paperwork, and Sousa went back down the hall to find Guilford. He had no problem getting Guilford to approve Rose’s  transfer. They decided to spring the news on Jack the next day. Guilford and his team would be returning to Washington late that morning, and Jack was going with them.

Jack took it better than Sousa thought he would. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to bellyache too much in front of Guilford; maybe it was because Sousa and Rose had come up with a plan to promote Sally and make another hire; maybe it was because he wasn’t terribly concerned about the switchboard staff. He groused a bit about Sousa looting the office and made a few token threats of revenge, and then went on to give report: Sousa was in charge again until Jack got back on Thursday.

“And no skipping out early on Thursday,” said Jack. “We’re taking you out, remember?”

“All right, but it can’t be too late. I’ve got someplace to be at 6:30.”

Jack looked surprised; Sousa just leaned back in his chair, as if to say, _it can’t be helped_.

“6:30. Jeez. Well, we’ll keep that in mind, then.”

Over the next few days, Sousa finished handing off his work and cleared his few personal belongings out of his desk. He went to a travel agency and bought his airline tickets: an overnight fight from Boston, bottom berth, two refueling stops, arriving first thing in the morning in L.A.. As the agent reviewed his itinerary, he thought of his last trip on a plane: the evacuation flight, second berth from the bottom, Paris to New York with two refueling stops. Hopefully this one would be more pleasant.

He talked to Norman and Miss Clemens again and told them about his plans. They promised to meet him at the L.A. airport when he arrived. They were elated when he told them about Rose; Miss Clemens promised to help Rose with her travel arrangements.

Meanwhile, he wound up his other affairs. He made arrangements for his mail and settled up with his landlord. The building superintendent had started leaving him packing boxes.

And all the while when he was at work, he tried to avoid looking at the empty desk in the back, the one in front of the window next to the eagle.

On Thursday morning, he was awake and dressed before the alarm went off. He knew why he was all keyed up: that night, he’d be walking out of the New York office for the last time.

But first, he was meeting his father at the train station. He spent the morning on Chief duties, arranged for phone coverage, and left for the station around 10:30.

He’d last seen his father a couple of months ago, when he’d come down to New York for a weekend. It had been a strange visit. He’d taken his father to a few of the usual tourist spots — well, he’d tried to take him. They’d gone to the Statue of Liberty, but the elevator was out of order that day. Daniel knew he couldn’t manage the steps, and his father was not interested in going up without him, so they’d just looked around the base a little and gotten back on the ferry. At least his father didn’t seem too disappointed; he’d been properly awed at the sight of the statue, but seemed far more interested in the ferry ride. 

The trip to the Empire State Building had been a complete flop. His father hadn’t said anything, but Daniel could tell he was aghast at the price of the tickets; Daniel himself was dismayed by the extra-long lines. His father had dropped the hint that he wouldn’t be upset if they did something else, and Daniel gave up and took him up on it. As they stepped back out onto Fifth Avenue, his father remarked, “You know, I do appreciate your taking me around, but you don’t have to be a tour guide. I came to see you, not New York. Do you have a favorite place you like to go?”

The question had caught Daniel off guard, and he’d taken a little too long to come up with a plausible answer, and he’d seen his father noticing. He’d ended up taking his father to some of the flagship bookstores further up on Fifth. They had a good time wandering around, and he’d amused himself by ignoring his father’s protests and buying him a couple of books.

His father had insisted on stopping by a grocery store on the first day of his visit, and it turned out to be a good thing he had, for the next day had been cold and rainy and miserable, and the change in the weather kicked up the phantom pain in Daniel’s right leg. Daniel didn’t say anything, but of course his father knew. After Mass they spent the rest of the day at Daniel’s apartment, and Daniel was painfully conscious of how small and bare the place was, and how empty his pantry.

It ended up being a cheerful afternoon; they talked and played cards and dominoes and put on a concert broadcast from Carnegie Hall, while a chicken on the stove and a loaf of bread warming in the oven took off some of the chill. But all through that weekend, Daniel could not shake the sense that his father was dissatisfied about something. But his father didn’t say anything, and he didn't look like he wanted to be asked so Daniel didn’t ask, and on Monday morning he put his father on the train home without ever finding out what was on his mind.

Now, as he sat on the wooden bench, he wondered if it was because he’d been afraid his father would tell him something he already knew.

He looked up as the letters and numbers flipped: his father’s train had arrived. He stood up when the first passengers started to arrive from the platform and started scanning faces… and there was his father.

His father’s face lit up when he spotted Daniel, and his pace picked up. They gave each other a quick, tight hug.

“It's good to see you, Pai. Thank you for coming. How was your trip? Did you check any bags?”

“It's good to see you too, Daniel. You look good. No, I packed light, and I’m ready to get to work.”

“Lunch first, Pai.” He grinned and led his father to the cab stand.

They went to Daniel’s usual place, not far from his apartment, and drank coffee and caught up on family news until their food came.

“So,” asked his father, “what’s the plan for this afternoon?”

“Unfortunately, I do have to go back to the office,” said Daniel. “There’s a few last things I have to wrap up. I may be late.” He frowned.

“Will you have eaten?”

“No —”

“They’re not taking you out?” His father looked a little miffed on Daniel’s behalf.

“They’re talking about drinks. But I intend to be back by 6:30 so we can have dinner together.”

“But Daniel, this is your last day, don’t feel like —”

“And the best way I can think of to celebrate is to get out of there as soon as I can and come have dinner with you. Which, by the way, you don’t need to be cooking.”

“Eh…. maybe.”

 

After lunch, Daniel took his father back to the apartment, left him with his spare key and his phone number, and headed back to the office. He really was looking forward to getting back that evening — if nothing else, for the sheer entertainment of seeing what his father had gotten up to during his absence.  Having an excuse for not hanging around too long for drinks was just gravy.

When he reached the office, Rose stopped him on his way to the elevator. “There’s a message upstairs for you from Chief Thompson…. And we have something for you as well.” The rest of the switchboard girls nodded as they passed an envelope to Rose. She handed it to him. “We wanted to give this to you before things get hectic this evening.”

It was a greeting card, wth a picture of a landscape on the front and the word “Congratulations.” He opened it up.

 _Accept congratulations_  
_And best of wishes, too_  
_That your happiness may carry on_  
_Through future years for you!_

Someone had added “Congratulations, Chief Sousa! Best of luck from NYC-SSR-Communications!” Each of the operators had signed her name. Some of them had added little sentiments encouraging him to remember them, or to say hi to Clark Gable for them, or telling him what a great Chief he was going to be, or how they would miss him “even though you’re taking Rose away from us!”

He stood still and read it again. “Thanks,” he said, and looked up. “Thanks so much, this is real sweet.”

“We really will miss you,” said Sally. “But we’re very happy for you.” The rest of the operators nodded.

“Well, I’ll let you know if we have any more openings,” he promised. “And if anyone knows how to find me, it’d be you ladies, right?” He tucked the card into his jacket pocket. “Thanks again.”

Rose smiled and summoned the elevator. “And if I don’t see you this afternoon, I’ll see you in two weeks,” she said.

“Looking forward to it,” he said, and stepped into the elevator car.

 

“… And Chief Thompson called,” said Wallace. “He said they were taking the 11:00 out of Washington and should be here by 4:00.”

“They?”

“Yeah, the whole team’s coming back.”

“Thanks, Wallace.”

He opened the file before him and just stared at it. The whole team: Thompson, Wyckoff, Comden… and Carter. It was like a kick to the stomach. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since before his promotion was announced, almost a week ago, and he’d thought he was getting better….

But had he really thought he was going to slink out of town without ever talking to her again? Even if it were possible, even if it wouldn’t make him a coward, he didn’t really want that. He needed to say good-bye. And… he wanted to. No matter what else, they’d been friends. She’d treated him like a colleague, an agent, a competent human being when nobody else did.

No. He glanced out the blinds at her empty desk. He’d give her a friendly smile and then be on his way. He wanted to see her one more time.

He _had_ to.

 

4:00 came and went, and he found himself looking at the clock. Where were they? He could not leave without saying good-bye to Peg — to Carter, but he did not want to give Thompson the satisfaction of seeing him wait for her.

Thompson finally burst in at 5:15. “All right, agents, time to get yourselves over to Dutch Uncle’s! The Washington gang’s already there, so if you want some bourbon you’d better get moving before they drink it all…." He came into the office, dropped his bag on the floor, and sat down on the desk. “Train was late. I was about ready to get out and walk, except Carter looked like she was about to commandeer the engine, so I thought I’d save the shoe leather…. Wait!  Is _that_ why….?”

“Pull up your bobby sox, Jack,” snapped Sousa. “I have family in town. Carter probably just wanted to get off the train.” _Can’t imagine why,_ he almost added.

“If you say so. Wyckoff said she had them going double time from the moment they got there.” He knocked on the clipboard on the desk. “So, whaddya got for me? Loot any more staff? Should we count the spoons and the coffee cups? I expect a good report, because I’m not in the mood for a bad one. There’s going to be a line to buy you drinks and I plan to be at the head of it.”

Report didn’t take long, and Dutch Uncle’s was close by, so it wasn’t long before Sousa was at one end of three tables pushed together, surrounded by most of the SSR agents, drinking a bourbon purchased by Jack Thompson, the guy yacking at his right elbow who’d, only a few weeks before, called him “our biggest yo-yo” in front of the whole office. Life was funny, wasn’t it?

He caught Peggy’s eye and made a little face, and she pulled a face that was… it was probably one of her best ever, he could have applauded; it was amazing how, with just the faintest lift of her eyebrows and the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth, she could say _can you_ believe _this?_ and _we are_ still _the only ones in this office with any sense_.

Which would imply that tomorrow she would be the only one left in the office with any sense. Was it wrong of him to leave her behind? No, she’d be fine, she had them all well in hand….

“Right, Sousa?” Jack’s voice broke in.

“Sure, Thompson,” he said, with exaggerated weariness. The others laughed; Peggy caught his eye again: **_I_** _know you weren’t paying attention_ , said her smile.

The evening wore on; somebody — Jack, probably — bought him a second drink. The talk turned to the agents they’d lost recently; a few toasts went around….

“Well, good luck on the L.A. roads,” said Wyckoff. “Remember — oh my God — remember when you convinced Krzeminski that in California you drive on the left?” He started to laugh. “And he started telling everyone how stupid you were and we kept backing you up….”

Thompson and Carter stared; this had happened before either of them had come to the office.

“And then,” Comden put in, “and then he pulls out this magazine with a picture of San Francisco, and he says, see? They’re driving on the right! And Sousa says, that’s because they flip the pictures for the East Coast edition of the magazine. And Krzeminski thinks about it for a minute, and he says, but if that’s the case, how do people know which state uses which side of the road? And Sousa tells him that it depends on whether you’re on the left or the right side of the Missisippi River. Unless you’re in Minnesota, because that’s where the river starts, so in that state you drive down the middle of the road, but it’s okay because nobody lives there anyway.”

Thompson let his palms fall on the table.”Is that why he asked me if I needed remedial driving lessons when I told him I’d been out of San Diego? At first I thought he was just trying to make some kind of joke, but he was totally serious.

“So who was here first, Sousa, you or Krzeminski?”

“Krzeminski. Actually, he’d probably had been here the longest of any of us, except maybe Carter. He was an M.P. detailed to the Brooklyn facility.”

“Really!” said Peggy. “Do you know where….?”

“I think he was always on the outer perimeters, on the receiving docks and places like that.” Sousa met Peggy’s eyes: another connection to Steve Rogers, now lost.

The conversation sputtered along a few more minutes until it was finally time to go. He stood up. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, but….”

“So soon?” Peggy protested.

“Someone here has _plans_ ,” said Thompson. He shot a knowing look to Peggy; she didn’t return it. For a moment Sousa felt an impulse to tell her, _yes, I really do have plans, I really can’t stay_ — _I really do have to meet someone_ —

Before he could think about it any longer, Thompson was clapping him on the shoulder. “Well, good luck, Chief Sousa! Looking forward to working with you. Let us know when you get out there, all right?”

More handshakes, more good wishes…. And suddenly he was face to face with Peggy.

“Good luck, Chief Sousa!” she said, shaking his hand.  And then something in her expression shifted, and she was looking at him with an intensity that pinned him in place. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said. She gave his hand an extra squeeze.

And there was something in her tone that, if she hadn’t already made her feelings clear and if he hadn’t already made his decision, he… well, it didn’t matter, did it, because she had, and he had, and it only confirmed it for him: he had to get out of New York.

He could only smile, and try to keep it as simple and friendly as possible. “Thanks, Peggy. You too.” he said. He adjusted his crutch a little; instinctively she stepped back a little to give him room, and dropped her hand.

Thompson and Peggy walked with him out to the street and waited as he hailed a cab. When the cab pulled over, Thompson shook his hand one more time and then held the heavy door for him as he got himself into the back seat.

“We’re a small agency in a small world, Carter,” said Thompson. “We’ll see him again soon, you’ll see.”

“For heaven’s sake, Jack, try to make it sound like less of a threat.”

“All right, so long, Sousa.” Jack closed the car door, the cab pulled back onto the street, and Sousa remembered to wave a little before leaning forward to give the cabbie the address, and as he did he caught sight of Carter in the rear-view mirror, still standing on the sidewalk, watching him go, and then Thompson coming back a couple of steps to walk with her back inside. He settled back onto the seat, wondering what he’d just seen.

 

He _had_ to get out of New York.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bobby sox": cuffed anklets. "Bobby soxers": teenage girls, especially those who sighed and squealed for Frank Sinatra. 
> 
> I'm trying to keep continuity with the other fic I've written. Daniel's airplane ride from Paris to New York is in [Quo Vadis Chapter 7](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3804475/chapters/9725508). I first wrote about his father in [the pinata fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3662712); Pai first appears in [Quo Vadis in Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3804475/chapters/9519159).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel says good-bye to New York City and goes to spend some time with his family before leaving for L.A.

Daniel opened the door to his apartment and was greeted with a very unusual smell: the enticing aroma of a meal already cooking on the stove.

As he came in, his father turned from the sink. “There you are,” he said. “Perfect timing.”

Daniel sighed. “Pai, you weren’t supposed to —”

“I wasn’t? I’m _so_ sorry. I must have forgotten. Well, we might as well eat it, right? If you’re ready, why don’t you go ahead and wash up?”

Daniel shook his head and headed off to the bathroom. As he washed his hands, he could hear the soft clatter of plates and forks, and the creak of the oven door. He came back out to find his father serving out some kind of improvised dish of chicken and olives and potatoes, with fresh rolls brought from home and warmed in the oven. A bottle of red wine stood open in the middle of the table next to his two wineglasses. As he picked up the bottle to pour, Daniel had to admit to himself that this was far more appealing than yet another blue plate special at the diner, or whatever the rest of the office might be ordering up at Dutch Uncle’s.

They sat down and said grace. “You know, I was looking around and I don’t think it’ll take us that long to pack,” said his father. “If Pete’s agreeable, we might be able to go back tomorrow. So this could be your last night here.” Daniel lifted his wineglass in reply.

Daniel’s father had gotten a good start that afternoon on the packing, so once the dishes were done they decided to take the rest of the evening off, get to bed early, and finish first thing in the morning. Apparently his father thought this meant his rising at dawn and turning off Daniel’s alarm, leaving Daniel to wake a couple of hours later to the gentler alarm of the scent of coffee and eggs and toast.

Daniel didn’t really have much at the apartment, so by the time Pete arrived late that morning, everything was packed up and ready to go. They got a quick lunch and loaded up the car. Daniel tried not to think too much about his being the one to arrange the boxes and suitcases in the trunk, instead of his father. Of course it made sense; he couldn’t manage carrying the boxes and his father could. And of course his father and Pete didn’t think the less of him for it. It was just the way it was. But it still bothered him. He wondered if it ever wouldn’t.

Once the car was loaded, he took a last walk through the apartment. It was strange to see it back to the way it was when he’d moved in, as if he’d never been there.

But he felt no regret. He pulled the door shut, locked it, left the key in the drop box, and went back out to the car. His father had already taken the back seat, so he got into the front passenger seat.

Pete looked over to him. “Any sights you want to see on the way out?”

“Besides the ‘Welcome to Westchester County’ sign? Nothing, really.”

Pete chuckled. “Yeah, you’re real broken up about leaving New York, aren’t you. I wouldn’t mind seeing the Statue of Liberty, but I don’t know if I want to lose an hour getting down there and back, so…” He started the car. “Off we go! Now, how do you want to get out of here?”

Daniel guided Pete out of the city, picking a route that brought them past a few landmarks he could point out. As they drove, they passed a few other landmarks he couldn’t point out: The city building with the dusty old records that were somehow always his detail. The street that led to the docks where they’d found the _Heartbreak_. The cross street that led to the Griffith — the sight of it made his stomach hurt.

And finally they passed into Westchester County. New York City was behind him at last.

They were in Connecticut when Pete asked, “So what are you gonna do on your week off?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Daniel. “Sleep late. Eat green soup. Go to the track. The usual.” He smiled as Pete scoffed. “But seriously, I don’t have any real plans. I just want to enjoy being home for a while before I leave for L.A.. Which by the way, thanks a bunch for your help with all this.”

“No trouble at all, happy to do it.”

“There is some stuff I want to do to get ready. Think any of the newsstands in town carry the L.A. paper?”

Pete thought for a minute. “That one on the Green might be big enough. You know, the one on the southeast side?”

Daniel nodded. “Thanks, I’ll check it out.” He shifted in his seat.

Pete glanced over. “You okay? We can stop and take a break if you need to.”

“No, I’m fine. You’re the one who probably needs a break, you’ve been driving all day.”

“Oh, I’m okay. We had that good break over lunch, remember? But thanks, I’ll let you know if I….” Daniel looked uncomfortable, and Pete’s face fell. “Oh. Oh, gosh…. Sorry, Daniel.”

“It’s all right.”

“Wait, though. I mean — I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but you can still drive, can’t you? I saw something on a newsreel about guys who’d lost both legs, and they were driving. And they can put special controls on the cars, right?”

“Most of those guys in the newsreels seem to be the ones who lost legs below the knee,” said Daniel. “It makes a difference. But yeah, I can drive; I’m just really out of practice. I was getting back into it at the hospital, but I left so I could take this job before I’d really gotten the hang of it again. And then I didn’t need a car in New York for myself, so….

“It’s going to be a lot different in L.A., though. I hadn’t said anything yet, but I was hoping to be able to borrow a car this week so I can practice again.”

“Just an ordinary car?”

“Yeah. That’s what we practiced on in the hospital. And it just seems like it would be better to be able to drive an ordinary car instead of depending on a special one, if I can manage it. You know, just in case something comes up.”

“Well, if you want to, you can definitely borrow ours tomorrow and Sunday for a practice session. Maybe you can take Charlie and me for a drive.”

“Thanks, Pete. I appreciate it.”

 

They made good time that afternoon.  When they pulled up in front of the house, Pete’s children Charlie and Katie were playing in the front yard. They dropped what they were doing and immediately sounded the alarm: “They’re _here_! They’re _here_!” Charlie dashed up the steps to shout the news through the front door, and then clattered back down.

Daniel opened the car door and brought his crutch around. The kids were waiting on the sidewalk, almost quivering with excitement; Katie started to dash forward but Charlie caught her. “Wait,” he said quietly.

Daniel lifted his right leg out the car door and then turned the rest of himself around, so that he was still sitting on the car seat but facing out the door. “Come on,” he said.

Katie beamed, ran up to the car, and climbed into his lap. “Hi, Tio Daniel!” She flung her arms around him.

He hugged her back. “Hi, Katie! I’m so happy to see you. Look how big you are!”  By now Charlie had come up to the door; he reached out and hugged Charlie with his right arm. “Hi, Charlie,” he said softly. “Good work.”

“Thanks, Tio Daniel,” whispered Charlie.

Katie slithered off his lap to go find her grandfather. “Okay, Charlie,” said Daniel. Charlie took a step back, and Daniel took his crutch in his right hand and levered himself up out of the car.

By now, Daniel’s sisters had come down the steps.  “Look, Mama,” cried Charlie, “Tio Daniel’s here!”

“I see! Thank you, Charlie.” She stepped forward and let Daniel pull her into a hug. “Daniel, it’s so good to see you. I’m _so_ glad you’re here.”

“It’s good to see you, Ines. Wait, this can’t be —?”

“Oh, but it is!” She lifted up her toddler. “Look, Maddie, it’s Tio Daniel!” The little girl took one look at Daniel and immediately buried her face in Ines’s shoulder. “Oh, oh, are you going to be shy? She’ll warm up to you,” she promised.

“Of _course_ she’s going to be shy, she hasn’t seen Tio Daniel for _six months_.” Daniel’s other sister Tillie had her arms crossed and was trying to look stern. “Silly.” She opened her arms and stepped in for a hug.

“Good to see you too,” said Daniel. Tillie smiled and tightened her hug.

“So what’s the plan?” said Pete, dodging as Maddie tried to pull at his face.

“Dinner, but it’s not quite ready,” said Tillie.

Daniel’s father came up, Katie holding his hand. “Then how about we go ahead and unload? Daniel, what do you think?”

Daniel nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

Pete dodged another swipe from the baby, leaned down, and opened the car trunk. “Well, then, let’s get going.”

 

Unloading was quick work. Daniel had an eager helper in Charlie, and a few neighbors turned up to welcome him home and lend a hand. Soon Charlie was escorting him up the front steps, and then up the stairs to his old room.

“Thanks, Charlie. How about you go wash up and meet me downstairs? I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Okay. But later on will you show me your ribbons?”

“Sure, if you want.”

“And can we play a game?”

“If we have time.”

“And can we —”

“Charlie?”

“O _kay_.” He dragged himself out the door; Daniel closed it behind him. He needed to tend to his leg.

He came back downstairs around half an hour later, using two crutches. Driving with Pete had been much better than taking the train, but he was still tired, and his right leg was swollen and sore. It was a huge relief to leave the heavy prosthetic upstairs — and to know that it didn’t bother his family to see him without it. Even the kids didn’t seem to notice after a couple of minutes.

He came into the dining room and helped finish setting the table as the serving dishes started coming in from the kitchen. Charlie and Katie loudly claimed the chairs on his left and his right; Pete wrestled Maddie into the highchair; his father poured wine while Ines and Tillie took care of the final preparations and sat down themselves. They said grace, the dishes started to go around the table… Finally the last dish was passed. Daniel picked up his fork and glanced around the table: Charlie was talking on his left side, Katie on his right; Pete and Ines were eating as best they could while reminding Katie to eat and monitoring the baby, who was alternating between playing with her food, talking loudly about it, and eating it; Tillie was carrying on three conversations at once and looked like she wanted to start a fourth.

His father caught his eye and smiled. “Daniel, it’s so good to have you home,” he said, and Daniel felt his heart ache with happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, new readers, and thanks for coming aboard!
> 
> "green soup": Portuguese kale soup.
> 
> I'm keeping Daniel's family consistent with my other fic-in-progress, [Quo Vadis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3804475?view_full_work=true)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel gets ready for Los Angeles while he spends a week with his family.

 

 

Pete picked Daniel up the next morning, drove him to the cemetery, and switched places with him, reading the paper in the passenger seat while Daniel practiced driving on the wide, quiet lanes. They went again on Sunday, and Ines went with him on Monday. By Friday he was feeling much more confident, chauffeuring Ines around on all her errands and taking her and Tillie out to lunch.

His nieces and nephew did their best to monopolize his time. Little Maddie warmed up to him quickly, and soon was bringing him armfuls of books and demanding to be read to. When he wasn't reading _The Animals of Farmer Jones_ for the hundredth time, he played games with Charlie and Katie and took them out for ice cream and played catch with them in the backyard (not very well, but they didn’t seem to care).

The newsstand didn’t carry an L.A. paper, but Chief Norman called him several times during the week to touch base. Miss Clemens kept him up to date as well: Rose’s transfer was going smoothly, and she was expected to arrive in Los Angeles the week after he did.  Everything would be ready for him.

And all too quickly, the week slipped by.

 

On his last Saturday, he woke up at dawn. He dressed in a hurry, threw a few extra leg supplies into a bag, and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Tillie was packing a picnic basket, and his father was pouring coffee into a vacuum flask.

“Ready?” asked his father.

“Give me a short cup of that and I will be,” said Daniel. His father poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him. When he finished the coffee, Tillie smiled and slid her car keys across the table.

A couple of hours later, Daniel pulled into the parking lot of a Cape Cod beach. He carefully pulled into a parking spot and turned off the car.

“So,” he said. “We made it.”

“Of course we did,” said Tillie from the back seat. “Now, let’s have breakfast! I’m _starved_.”

He looked over to his father, in the passenger seat. His father just smiled and handed him his crutches.

Daniel was still not sure how this entire outing had come together. A couple of evenings earlier, his father had mentioned something about maybe Daniel would like to see the Atlantic one more time before heading off to the Pacific? Daniel had said that sounded nice, but he hadn’t really been paying close attention, he’d been playing bridge with his sisters and Pete — and then Ines and Pete had gone home, and his father had brought it up again, and Tillie got into the act, and all of a sudden it turned into a chance for Daniel to practice his driving, and of course he’d want to see the _real_ Atlantic Ocean, but they’d need to leave early to beat the crowds, a breakfast picnic could be fun, his father knew just the place….

“Daniel, would you please get the trunk for me?” called Tillie.

He grabbed his crutches, swiveled himself out of the car, and went around to open the trunk. “Thanks,” said Tillie. She lifted out the picnic basket. Underneath it were three folding chairs.

“I’ll take those,” said their father. He lifted them out and nodded towards a boardwalk leading to the beach. “It’s early enough that we should be able to sit up there without being in anyone’s way.”

A few minutes later, they were sitting on the boardwalk, drinking coffee and eating muffins and buttered rolls, watching the waves lap against the shore. Daniel’s father looked out to the water with an look of deep contentment.

Daniel looked over at Tillie. She glanced at their father and then back at Daniel: _any time now,_ her expression said.

But their father only sipped his coffee. A few minutes later he leaned forward and squinted. “Think that’s a seal?” he asked, and pointed.

Daniel suddenly thought of binoculars for Christmas. Tillie sighed. “Papai, will you please just go ahead and say the poem?” Daniel chuckled.

“All right, Tillie,” said their father. “Since you asked so nicely:

 

“ _‘I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,_  
_And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,_  
_And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,_  
_And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking._

 _“ ‘I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide_  
_Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;_  
_And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,_  
_And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying._

“ _‘I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life._  
_To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;_  
_And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,_  
_And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.’_ ”

 

Something occurred to Daniel. “Pai?” he asked. “Your grandfather — the one you learned the poem for,” he added, heading off the rest of the story — “He made it to the Pacific Ocean, didn’t he.”

“Indeed he did,” said his father. “He had a few souvenirs from Hawaii and some of the other islands; I think Tio Marco has them.”

“I want to see the Pacific Ocean,” said Tillie.

“Come on over,” said Daniel. “As soon as I get settled. Pai, you too. You can come in the wintertime and get warmed up.”

“Never mind me. If _you_ get to see the Pacific Ocean, Daniel, that’ll be enough for me,” said his father. Tillie looked uncomfortable.

“I’ll get there,” said Daniel. “But I’m serious. It’s not as expensive there as it is in New York, I should be able to get a bigger apartment, maybe even a little place of my own. I want to have enough room for all of you to come and visit, and I want you all to come.”

Tillie grinned. “I can’t wait.”

 

Late that morning, Daniel brought the car back into the driveway with a feeling of triumph. They’d run into traffic on the way home, which meant more braking and shifting, but he hadn’t stalled out or hit anything, and he’d been able to drive the entire trip home, two hours straight. Sure, he was tired, but he was feeling much more confident about getting a car and driving it — in fact, he was beginning to look forward to it. L.A. was beginning to feel more and more like freedom.

That night, after he’d showered and done his leg routine, he started packing his clothes: this was his last night at home. His father stopped by and visited for a few minutes before he went on to bed.  With a pang, Daniel kept working. It was going to be hard to say good-bye.

A few minutes later later, another knock sounded at the door. “Daniel?”

“Oh, hey, Tillie. Come on in.”

She was in her pajamas and bathrobe, with a scarf over her pin curls. She looked over the open suitcases. “Want a hand?”

“Sure, if you’re offering. That stuff over there —” he pointed to the foot of his bed — “goes in that one.” He pointed to one of the open suitcases.

“Got it. Nice folding over there, by the way.”

“Gee, thanks. Between you, Ines, and the Army, something must have sunk in.”

“Oh, I have something for you.” She pulled out a bundle from her bathrobe pocket and handed it to him. “You seemed to like the last ones I made, so….”

He unfolded the bundle. “Aw, Tillie. You didn’t have to….”

“I know. But I wanted to.”

They were stump socks. The ones Tillie knitted for him were warm and comfortable, perfect for when he wasn’t wearing his prosthesis.

“Well, thanks, Tillie,” said Daniel. “These really are tops. I think I’ll take this one on the plane.” He tossed one of them into his plane bag.

“I used a lighter yarn on some of these, so let me know if you like them. I thought it might be more comfortable in the hot weather.”

“Like this green and orange one?”

“It’s turquoise and coral, but yes, like that one. Speaking of hot weather, were you really intending on packing all these sweater vests?”

“Well, yes. What? I like them, they’re comfortable. And there might be some traveling with this job.”

“Sweater vests in L.A.! You are so silly. How about just one or two, instead of the whole pile? If it turns out you need more I can always ship them to you. How about the brown one… and the gray one?” She held them up.

The day flooded back: _I was there for that performance — the girl on the pedestal — to you I’m invisible —_ a baby carriage, a silver canister _…._ “ _Not_ the gray one.”

“….Okay.” She put it back on the bed and put the brown one in the suitcase, and then looked up at Daniel. “That girl I was teasing you about over Christmas… anything ever happen with that?”

He took a deep breath and focused on stuffing a pair of socks into a corner of the suitcase. “No.”

He looked up. Tillie looked dubious. “No, nothing happened,” he insisted.  He shoved another pair of socks into the suitcase. “Nothing.”

Tillie didn’t say anything. He looked up cautiously. There was nothing teasing about her expression.

“You really weren’t happy in New York, were you,” she said.

He sighed and leaned back in the chair. “Not really.” He tossed another pair of socks into the suitcase. “Was it that obvious?”

She smoothed a spot on the bedspread and sat down. “Not at first. You seemed a little down at Christmas, but we were hoping things would turn around for you.”

“We?”

“Well, yes. We. Me and Papai and Ines. Anyway, I was hoping maybe this girl might cheer you up, but I guess not.” Her voice grew suspicious. “She wasn’t _mean_ to you, was she?”

“Oh, no. Never.” Soft eyes in the infirmary, after he’d struck her in the face. _You weren’t yourself. How are you now?_ She’d forgiven him. And that little smile….

“So…?” prompted Tillie.

“I did ask her out, kind of,” said Daniel. “She turned me down.” He picked up another pair of socks.

“Well, she must not be very smart, then.”

“That’s not true at all, she’s probably one of the smartest people I’ve ever met —” Daniel stared at the socks in his hands.

Tillie’s shoulders sank. “Oh, Daniel. You really cared for her, didn’t you. I’m so sorry.”

He chuckled a little. “It’s all right. She was real nice about it, let me down easy.” He put another pair of socks in the suitcase. “She’s kind of out of my league anyway.”

“Out of your league?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know the expression. But you play in the majors.”

“Tillie, that’s… that’s sweet of you to say. But —”

“But nothing!  I mean it! What, is she some kind of princess? or movie star?”

 _Better_ , thought Daniel, _she's better_ —

Tillie’s face and voice grew softer. "How’d you meet her?"

"At the office, and I know where you’re going with this. Just… take my word for it, okay?”

“Well, obviously _she_ didn’t think she was out of your league, because you said she was smart, and no smart person could _ever_ think something so dumb.”

Daniel chuckled a little at her confidence in her verdict, and reached for another pile of clothes. Tillie watched him in silence for a couple of minutes before she spoke up again.

“Is she the reason you’re leaving New York?”

“No. This promotion’s huge, there was no question about taking it. But this… it made it even easier to say yes.”

He folded a tie, but instead of putting in the suitcase he held it loosely in his hand. He looked up at Tillie. “Papai didn’t figure it out, did he?”

“What, about this girl? I don’t know. If he did, it wasn’t because _I_ said anything. I… might have tried to finagle a hint out of him after he came to see you in March, but he didn’t say anything about it to me.”

“What, did he… say something else?”

“Well, he talked about the trip and what you did….”

“Tillie.”

“He really didn’t say much, he….”

“ _Tillie_. Be straight with me.”

Tillie sighed. “The night he came back, Ines came over for a bit after dinner, and he told us about what you’d done, and how you’d taken the ferry to the Statue of Liberty…. Oh, and he showed us the books you got him and he pretended to be upset, but you could tell he really liked them.” Daniel smiled. “And he said you looked good, even better than you had at Christmas, and that you seemed to be doing really well with the new prosthetic.

“And that’s about all he said. So I looked at Ines and Ines looked at me and we followed him into the living room and Ines just asked him straight up, ‘Papai, what’s going on?’

“And at first he kind of hemmed and hawed, and talked about how hard you were working and getting yourself established and you were a grown man and —”

“Aw, jeez,” muttered Daniel.

“Yeah. Finally he admitted that he was concerned about you. Not _worried_ — he was _very_ clear on that — but _concerned_. He said your apartment looked about the same as the day you moved in and about all you kept around to feed yourself with was coffee and tuna —”

“I had more than that,” grumbled Daniel.

“— And he said you didn’t talk about any friends in New York or what you liked to do there — he said, even at the hospital you told us about your friends and about the things you were doing. He said you seemed to work and sleep and that was about it, and that he got the sense that you were frustrated at work, too.

“He said that he didn’t think you were sad, but that he was worried you weren’t happy, and that you deserved to be happy. And then he said he was tired, it had been a long day, and he said good night and went to bed.”

Daniel grimaced and tossed the tie into the suitcase.

“I know he's told you this,” said Tillie, “but he's really happy for you about your promotion. He's so proud. And he’s right, you know: You deserve to be happy.”

Daniel didn’t know what to say. The idea of deserving to be happy seemed a little arrogant, but he certainly didn’t _not_ deserve it…. He hated that he’d disappointed his father, but he’d already locked the door on that chapter of his life and turned in the key…. And what would happiness look like for him, anyway?

“I don’t know about _that_. And I don’t know if I’ll ever have my kitchen up to Papai’s standards,” he added. Tillie laughed.

“But things’ll be different in L.A. I’m feeling kind of good about it, it’ll be a fresh start. The work’ll be hard, especially at first, but….”

“But you’ll be the chief.”

“Yes, there’s that —”

“And you’re going to be _great_ —”

“And once I have a handle on things, I’m going to have some free time, and I promise you, I’m going to do more with it than just work and sleep. And you can come out and see for yourself.”

Tillie beamed. “I’m going to hold you to that. Don’t make me wait too long.”

 

The next day, late in the afternoon, Daniel received a coded telegram from Chief Norman, confirming that an agent would meet him at the L.A. airport: one more reminder that his time with his family was ending. He put it in the bag he’d packed for the plane.

One last dinner with the whole family. Charlie and Katie were subdued, and Maddie was fretful, as if she knew something was different. After dinner Ines herded the children home; Pete stayed behind to help load Daniel’s suitcases into the car.

And finally it was time to go. Tillie drove Daniel and their father over to Ines’s house; Daniel said good-bye one more time to Pete and the unhappy children, Ines joined them in the car, and they were on their way to the airport.

They arrived in plenty of time to sit in the lounge and drink coffee and wait for the plane. The announcement came; Daniel stood and picked up his bag; his family followed him out to the tarmac. He saw his father nervously eyeing the steep boarding staircase.

“It’ll be fine, Pai,” he said quietly.

A stewardess approached. “Would you like to go ahead and board?” she asked.

He’d been planning on boarding last, but the expected answer was clearly yes, so… a hug for Ines (“Have a good flight”), for Tillie (“Be good!” she ordered him), and for his father (“Let us know when you get there”). He climbed the stairs one by one, the stewardess following him with his second crutch. He paused at the top to catch his breath and wave — there they were waving back — and the stewardess waiting patiently behind him, and another passenger waiting to climb the stairs. He took a deep breath, turned, ducked his head, and stepped into the plane.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, for your kudos, and especially for your comments, which I display in a glass fronted cabinet and gaze at with gratitude every day.
> 
> Thanks to CotyCat82 and scullysahnestarkbroetchen for their advice and encouragement on this chapter.
> 
> The poem is "Sea-Fever", by John Masefield. Tillie and Daniel know their father's story about this poem _quite_ well; if you're interested, it's in [Quo Vadis Chapter 15](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3804475/chapters/11417536).
> 
> Of your charity, please spare a prayer or a kind thought for the soul of my great-grandfather, who taught my father to drive in an old cemetery in Westchester County, New York.


	7. June 1946

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chief Sousa's first day on the job

“So, Chief Sousa: Avery tells me this wasn’t just your first day at the office, it was your first day in Los Angeles! What did you think?”

Sousa looked up from his salad. “I hardly know where to start, Mrs. Norman,” he said.

“I can imagine! I’m sure it’s quite different from New York.”

“Oh, yes. It’s… it’s very different.”

 

His day had begun a little over thirteen hours ago, in a berth on the airplane, somewhere in the sky over… over Arizona, he’d guessed. He’d peeked out the window and seen the very first streaks of dawn reflected in the clouds. After the stewardess turned his berth back into a seat, he’d rewrapped his leg and dressed and shaved. The stewardess brought breakfast — French toast, sausage, fruit, coffee; as he ate, he wrote a few of the picture postcards that the airline had provided.

Soon it was time to pack everything up and reset his watch: they were approaching Los Angeles. He felt his heart beat a little faster as the plane began to descend. The bump of the landing, the anticipation as they pulled up to the gate…

He waited as the other passengers gathered their things. Again and again, he politely declined their offers to let him go first. When the line for the door was getting short, he got up, shouldered his bag, and made his way down the aisle. He stepped out onto the top of the stairs and let his eyes adjust in the bright morning sun before looking to the right hand side of the stairs. A man in a light gray suit stood there, with a folded newspaper tucked under his left arm: his ride. He made his way down the stairs, accepted his second crutch from the stewardess, and walked over.

“You’re here very early,” he said.

“My grandfather clock runs slow.” Sousa recognized the man's voice from the phone: It was Chief Norman himself; .

“You still smoke a pipe?”

“Only on birthdays and Thanksgiving.”

Sousa reached out to shake hands. “Daniel Sousa.”

“Avery Norman.” His handshake was firm. “Pleasure to meet you! Here, let me take that bag for you.” As they began to walk, Sousa noticed a man behind the gate — a man who hadn’t been on the plane — turn and enter the terminal.

Norman saw Sousa noticing. “Agent Vega,” he said quietly.

“This is quite a welcome party.”

“I wasn’t expecting any crashers, but it’s always good to be prepared. So how was your flight?”

When they got to the baggage claim desk, Norman introduced him to Miss Clemens, who was waiting for them with a wide smile and a luggage cart. They collected Sousa’s bags from the attendant and took them out to where Agent Vega was waiting for them with the car. More introductions, Chief Norman took the wheel, and they were on their way.

As they drove to the office, Sousa tried to avoid goggling out the car windows like a rube, but it was difficult: the palm trees, the big blue sky, the feeling of new and elbow room instead of the crush of New York City….

They pulled up in front of a nondescript building. _Weber’s Theatrical Agency_ , said the sign over the door.

“There it is,” said Norman. “Soon under new management.”

Vega pulled around to the back and brought the car into the garage. Miss Clemens pulled out a key and summoned the freight elevator. As they waited, Norman told him a bit about the bureau’s fleet and pointed out the fleet manager’s office. So far, it was feeling like home.

They rode up the two flights to the main office level. As he stepped off the elevator, he hear Miss Clemens behind him: “So what do you think, Chief Sousa?”

“It looks real nice,” he said, and he meant it. The wide hallways, the natural light, the paintings…. very different from the dark New York offices.

As they walked into the bullpen, Sousa noticed that the lab was next door instead of being tucked off in the basement someplace. That could come in handy, he thought.

A hush fell over the office as the agents noticed them. Faces began to appear at the lab window; Norman waved them in. He showed Sousa the corner Chief’s office and dropped Sousa’s plane bag behind the door.

“Thanks again,” said Sousa. “Mind if I leave this there as well?” He held up his second crutch.

“Absolutely. You can hang it right off my hat stand there if you want.” Norman pointed. “You don’t need it?”

“Not all the time.”

“Huh. Yeah, go ahead. Also, if there’s anything you need to have done... around the office, to, you know, make it easier for you? Make a list. There’s some money in the budget we can use. And just so you know… like I said, I haven’t said anything to the office.”

Sousa nodded. He’d been thinking over how he wanted to handle it ever since he’d first spoken to Norman two weeks ago. He walked with Norman to a spot just outside the Chief’s office.

“All hands!” called Norman. Agents started to come forward; the scientists emerged from the lab; Miss Clemens appeared with a few other women. When he was satisfied with the turnout, Norman addressed the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the day is here. Meet your new Chief: Daniel Sousa.” Applause ran around the room.

“I’ve told the team here about you,” said Norman. “Like how you found the clue that led to the break in the Orange Industries case, and how you just played a part in putting away the Leviathan case.”

“Well, it wasn’t just me, but thanks, Chief Norman,” said Sousa. “It’s a real honor to be asked to come out here to serve with you. I’m looking forward to meeting you all; Chief Norman here’ll be showing me around soon.” Norman nodded.

“Some of you,” continued Sousa, “might be wondering about this.” He indicated his crutch. “It’s only natural. So I made a list of the questions I get most often and decided to go ahead and answer them for you.

“Yes, the right. The ETO. Sometimes when there’s a change in the weather coming, but otherwise no. No, but yes. Yes, I can and I have. And yes. Or, no, depending on how you phrase the question. And I appreciate the thought: if I do, I’ll tell you. And… I think that covers it.” He looked over to Norman. “So: where do you want to start?”

“Well, how about right here? This is Agent Jerome….”

Norman showed him around the bullpen and then the lab. They went down the hall to the bathrooms and the locker room and then on to the switchboard. Miss Clemens was already there with the operators. Sousa sensed that he and Norman had walked in on a conversation; as he was introduced to the operators, he began to suspect that the conversation had been about him.

Miss Clemens left the switchboard room with them and took them down the stairs. She showed Sousa how to operate the sliding door to the decoy office from both sides and told him funny stories about the showbiz hopefuls who somehow found their way to the front office. From there, Norman took him took him to meet the fleet manager and the janitor, and that concluded the tour.

They had lunch brought in. After lunch, Sousa chose a locker, rewrapped his leg, and got back to work. Norman gave him an overview of the bureau’s current cases, and then started teaching him the tedious art of administration.

Finally, late that afternoon, Norman capped his pen. “I think that’s enough for the day, don’t you? Let me bring you by your hotel so you can drop off your bags and check in, and then we’ll go to my place for dinner. My wife’s looking forward to meeting you.”

 

As they drove out to the house, Norman pointed out landmarks as Sousa drank in the sights. Now that they were back out of the office, it was really hitting him: he was in a very, very different place now: the openness, the big blue sky, the palm tress… and the heat. It had been cooler in the morning, and then the office and the hotel were air conditioned, but now… Sousa loosened his tie a little more, conscious of the sweat starting to form on his back, and how uncomfortably warm and snug his leg was in his prosthesis.

And as he looked out the window of the car… Was everyone in Los Angeles just getting off a movie set or dressing to be discovered? Even just sitting in the car he was beginning to feel a little self-conscious, and for the first time in forever it wasn’t about his leg. Even back in the office… The switchboard girls in New York were pretty and they wore pretty clothes, but there was something a different about about Miss Clemens and the operators here, and he couldn’t put a name to what it was. It wasn’t striking like whatever it was that so striking about  _her_ , of course, that went without saying, what she had was special, something nobody else had — _Whitby’s Prospect, third race… that’s why they call it gambling…_ her smile…. Wearily, he shoved the memory aside. That was over, and this was now, and they were pulling up to what must be Norman’s house, and even Norman’s house was a style he’d never seen before, stucco with terra-cotta roof tiles and an arched entry to the front porch.  As Norman led him up the walk, they were welcomed by the scent of gardenias.

For that matter, this whole adventure — the whole idea of dinner at the home of an SSR chief, instead of just meeting someplace for drinks — was new, too.  Sousa did not have much time to gather his thoughts; as Norman showed him into the house, Mrs. Norman came to meet them. Norman greeted her with a kiss. “Hello, sweetheart. Meet Daniel Sousa; Sousa, my wife Gladys —” they shook hands — “and those rascals I see peeking around the corner are Bobby and Neil. Come here, boys.” The boys emerged, shook hands politely with Sousa, and were sent back out to play.

A few minutes later, Norman was handing him a martini; Mrs. Norman was handing him a little plate of smoked salmon canapés; and there he was, sitting on their sofa, making small talk with them while Mrs. Norman went back and forth from the kitchen, carrying her martini, wearing a flowy, drapey pants outfit of a kind he’d never seen in real life before. He felt like he was in a movie.

It wasn’t long before Mrs. Norman announced dinner and they went into the dining room, and even dinner brought a new experience —  he’d never eaten or even seen an avocado before, but here it was, embedded with pears and cherries in a mold of quivering lime gelatin — just twenty-four hours ago he’d been boarding the plane in Boston, and now here he was eating a fancy gelatin salad with avocados in it at the home of the outgoing Chief of the Los Angeles bureau… and Mrs. Norman asked him about his first day in Los Angeles… and really — where could he even start?

 

“ ‘Different’?” chuckled Norman. “That’s the understatement of the year. Though I guess going to Washington’ll just be trading one kind of  _different_  for another. I have to say, I will miss the weather. Sousa, you’ve been to Washington, haven’t you? Weren’t you at Belvoir?”

“I was. They kept me pretty busy, so I wasn’t able to see much of Washington….”

They chatted for a while about where they were from, where they’d lived, where they’d served…. Eventually the conversation turned back to business. Norman took out a notebook.

“…So let’s see, LAPD and the Port Police are on Wednesday, UCLA’s on Thursday, Coast Guard’s on Friday…. Oh, and that thing for the Admiral’s on Friday, too.”

Mrs. Norman patted his arm. “That’s black tie, honey, don’t forget.”

“Black tie,” Norman grumbled, and then looked up at Sousa. “You pack a tuxedo?”

“Uh… no, I can’t say I did.”

“ You don’t have one, do you. It’s no big deal. But you _are_ going to need one in time for Friday, so we should take care of that tomorrow. Just go ahead and buy one, it’ll pay for itself in a few months.” Norman glanced up at his wife. She nodded regretfully.

“Actually, it’s just as well this came up,” said Norman. “Yeah, you’re going to need your own penguin suit, but… well, no offense, Sousa, but you’re just going to need new clothes period.”

“It’s just part of moving to Los Angeles,” said Mrs. Norman. “The climate is different here, and I don’t mean just the weather.”

“And it’s part of being promoted, and part of this particular post,” said Norman. “I don’t know how it was in New York, but it’s very, very social here, a lot of entertaining. You’ll have your contacts in the military, in civilian law enforcement, in the contracting firms, in the University, in the pictures….

“Really, I’m not trying to criticize; your clothes are fine. But they’re fine for being a junior agent in New York. Now you’re a Chief, and of the L.A. office to boot.”

 “It’s all right,” said Sousa. “I was wearing a sweater vest when I got on the plane, and the stewardess kind of dropped me a strong hint that I should just leave it in my bag in the morning.”

“I’m sure it was a very nice sweater vest,” said Mrs. Norman.

“L.A. is not exactly a sweater vest town,” said Norman. “But don’t worry. We’ll get it taken care of tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an expansion of indigowild's birthday fic.
> 
> Cook along with Mrs Norman: [Double Pear Salad](http://www.midcenturymenu.com/2013/06/double-pear-salad-a-vintage-gelatin-recipe-test/)
> 
> Anybody recognize what she's wearing? ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chief Sousa's new clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an expanded version of a fic done for indigowild for her birthday, for her prompt of Chief Sousa getting some new "chiefly" clothes.

 

The next morning, after they’d spent a couple of hours at the office, Norman drove Sousa downtown, pointing out more landmarks along the way.

“Another big department store there, one of the swankiest,” he said. “But that’s not where we’re going. I’m going to introduce you to one of my most important contacts: Mr. Yew.”

He turned a corner. “One of the challenges of being the Chief of the L.A. office is that you’ve got to look like a Chief but on a Chief’s salary, you know? But if you stick with Mr. Yew, he’ll make it happen. Just don’t ever blab what he charges you, or that is the end of that. Actually there’s two Mr. Yews. The son does the stuff in the front and all the talking. I don’t know how much English the father speaks but he understands perfectly well. And they both understand just enough about what we do.”

They pulled up in front of the shop. “This neighborhood looks decent enough. You always carry when you buy your shirts?” said Sousa.

“You’ll see. The Yews can be a little bossy, but they’ve got good judgment and they know their business.”

Little chimes sounded as they entered the shop. Sousa looked around at the clothes dummies, at the racks of coats and trousers and shirts, at the bolts of fabric.

“Mr. Norman!” Mr. Yew — the son, Sousa assumed — emerged from the back. “So good to be able to see you one more time. And this must be your successor?”

“That’s right. Mr. Sousa, meet Mr. Yew.”

“How do you do? Thank you for coming.” Mr. Yew went to the front of the shop. He turned the OPEN sign in the window around and drew the curtains.

“There. Now we have more privacy. But still, don’t tell me too much. Now, Mr. Sousa: Mr. Norman tells me you need clothes for your new job.”

“Can you get him in a tuxedo for Friday night?” said Norman.

“Oh, I think so. This way, please….”

He showed Norman to a chair, led Sousa into a mirrored fitting room and had him start taking off his clothes. He did not blink at the sight of Sousa’s holster.

“Trousers too, please. I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he said, seeing Sousa’s expression, “but we want to do this the right way.”

Well, he’d be doing this in a regular store as well…. “I’m going to need a few minutes, then,” said Sousa. “And a chair.”

A few minutes later, Sousa was standing in his underwear in front of a three way mirror, standing as straight as he could using his crutch and the chair, as Mr. Yew the younger took his measurements and called out the numbers in Chinese to his father. He felt a little self-conscious at first, but soon began to relax; there was something very clinical about it, even when he began to suspect they were talking about his prosthesis.

Mr. Yew picked up his pants. “How long have you had this pair?”

“Since October, maybe?” He watched as they examined the pants, pointing the worn places out to each other.

“All right,” said Mr. Yew, “Tuxedo first. We’ll be right back.”

They came back pushing a rack of tuxedos on hangers. They had a rapid conference with each other, looking back and forth between Sousa and the clothes, pointing at lapels and gesturing to each other, occasionally pushing one of the hangers to the end of the rack as if it had been ruled out.

Finally they came to an agreement, and the younger Mr. Yew held one of the tuxedos up. “Let’s try this one first.”

They had him put on the trousers. Sousa looked down and tugged at the waist: there were no belt loops.

“I don’t like suspenders,” he said.

“No belts in black tie,” said Mr. Yew. “Just suspenders.” He buttoned the suspenders to the back of the trousers, passed them over Sousa’s shoulders, and showed him how to adjust them. Then he showed Sousa how to put on the cuff links and studs. Father and son set about marking and pinning. The younger Mr. Yew tapped Sousa’s feet. “Don’t forget to get the proper shoes.”

They gave him a black waistcoat and then, to his surprise, had him put on his holster. They had him walk around with his crutch, demonstrate reaching for his holster, and act out throwing a punch.  They did some pinning and marking on the shirt and waistcoat, had him act everything out again, and made a few more edits. Then they gave him the jacket. More walking and reaching and swinging his arms, more marking and pinning. Finally they were satisfied.

After the tuxedo, they brought out a few blue suits for him to look at. He rejected the first one as soon Mr. Yew handed him the trousers.

“I don’t want suspenders,” he insisted.

“Maybe just try them on?” said Mr. Yew.

Before Sousa could refuse, the elder Mr. Yew spoke up. “They hurt your shoulder, maybe?” His accent was odd to Sousa; it sounded as much British as it did Chinese. He pointed to his own left shoulder. “Just give him a belt,” he said to his son.

The younger Mr. Yew stared at his father, as if he couldn’t believe his ears, and then selected a different suit. “Strange,” he said to Sousa, “usually he puts up a fight. Let’s try this one, then.”

Sousa put his own shirt back on and then put on the suit. It felt lighter than anything he had from New York, and as they started to mark and pin the jacket, Sousa realized that it wasn’t just because of the fabric; it was the fit.

Finally they let Sousa change back into his own clothes and turned him loose. “Don’t forget shoes for your tuxedo!” Mr. Yew said. “Bring them when you come on Thursday.”

 

Thursday afternoon found Sousa pulling up in front of the shop in his new car, his new shoes sitting in their box on the passenger seat.  He wiped his face with a handkerchief before he got out of the car. Mr. Yew greeted him warmly, flipped the sign on the door around, drew the curtains, and took him back to the fitting room.

He took another look at Sousa. “Still getting used to the heat? Let me get you some water while you get ready.” He turned a fan on as he walked out of the room. Sousa took off his jacket and shirt and took a moment to enjoy the cool on his back before he sat down and started the task of taking off his shoes and trousers. Back at the hospital, they’d warned him that he might have trouble in hot weather; losing a limb meant losing surface area for cooling off. He was certainly feeling the effect now.

Mr. Yew brought in the tuxedo and a glass of water. Sousa took a drink and started to get dressed. The new trousers (with the subtle stripe down the seam that he wondered if he’d ever get used to — looked like he was in a marching band, honest to Pete — couldn’t believe he was actually going to  _own_  this); new shoes; shirt, suspenders, tie, waistcoat, jacket…

Mr. Yew adjusted the lapels of the jacket, tucked a linen handkerchief in the breast pocket, and stepped around behind Sousa to check the fit of the back. Sousa looked up at the mirror.

For a moment he saw a stranger: someone taller, athletic, confident; someone who belonged in these clothes and didn’t look or feel like he was wearing a costume.

But no: that was him. Instinctively, he pulled in his crutch and stood up a little taller.

Mr. Yew the elder had a smug look on his face. “Movie star,” he said.

“Swing your arms, please,” said his son. “Now reach for your holster — is that comfortable? Can you crouch? Punch a bad guy without ripping out your sleeve? I hope not, we reinforced that seam.” He chuckled. “Take a walk around the room. Good… what do you think?”

“This… this isn’t bad,” said Sousa.

“ ‘This isn’t bad,’” scoffed Mr. Yew. “All right, you’re ready for tomorrow. Ready for the blue suit?”

“Sure,” said Sousa. He started to take off the tuxedo jacket, but paused for a moment to get one more look at the stranger in the mirror.

Meanwhile, the elder Mr. Yew started to speak in Chinese to his son. He looked displeased, and they argued a little until the younger Mr. Yew seemed to relent.

“My father,” he said, “wants to know if you need the blue suit right away, and if we can get it to you next week.”

“That’d be fine,” said Sousa.

“The other thing too!” said the elder Mr. Yew.

His son sighed. “Because we have a jacket in he’d like you to look at. He thinks it’s more important that the blue suit.”

“Um… okay.”

The elder Mr. Yew was already bringing in the jacket. “This shirt, too,” he ordered Sousa. “Your own trousers.”

Sousa carefully finished taking off the tuxedo. He put on his trousers and shoes and put on the shirt.

“Huh. I haven’t worn a green shirt since I got out of the Army,” he said. He buttoned the shirt and put on the jacket.

It was a light tan jacket, almost ivory, in a herringbone weave. He’d never tried on anything quite like it.

“Linen blend,”  said the elder Mr. Yew. “Keep you cooler.”

“Swing your shoulders a bit, take a walk around the room. See what you think,” the younger Mr. Yew suggested.

Sousa obeyed. “This is very comfortable,” he said. “Can I wear it out of here?” He was only half joking.

“No,” the Yews said together.

“There’s still some fitting left to do,” explained the younger Mr. Yew. He held up a few ties for Sousa to choose from.

The elder Mr. Yew made a disapproving noise. “Maybe… no tie?” he said.

Sousa frowned. He was liking feeling more comfortable, but the only people he could think of in his professional life who didn’t wear ties (besides the women) were Howard Stark and the late Agent Ray Krzeminski, and he didn't exactly consider them role models. Peggy wore suits sometimes, but those were ladies' suits —  and of course they looked nice, she always looked nice, but (not that it was any of his business) her dresses were even prettier, especially that blue one with the pink stripes — _dammit_ , he was doing it again —

The elder Mr. Yew walked over to a table and brought back a handful of magazines — _Life_ , _Photoplay, Silver Screen, Screen Times_. He started flipping through them and showing Sousa pictures of actors wearing sport jackets and open collars.

“When you’re as rich and famous as these guys, you can wear what you want. I’m not really in the movie business,” said Sousa.

The younger Mr. Yew looked like he’d thought won an argument; the elder Mr. Yew shook his head. Father and son argued again; the elder seemed to prevail, and turned to Sousa.

“You’re taking over Mr. Norman’s job, right?” He spoke a little slowly, and Sousa quickly was able to follow his accent. “But you’re not Mr. Norman. You need your men to remember that. So help them: Wear different clothes.

“Also: Some people? They’re going to look at you and think, oh, poor young man with one leg — ” the younger Mr. Yew looked mortified and started to busy himself with marking and pinning — “walks with a stick, how can he be the boss? So instead, you make them say, oh, why isn’t the young boss wearing a tie? See? They’re so busy thinking about your tie, they’re not thinking about your stick. 

“You’re not married, right? You meet a nice lady, she sees you, you look different from the others, and she thinks, oh, where is his tie? So she looks for your tie and she notices your face and thinks, oh! Young, handsome man, looks like a movie star….”

“I don’t know about that….”

The elder Mr. Yew scoffed. “ _Movie stars_ don’t look like movie stars. They get makeup, they get costumes — _then_ they look like movie stars.”

Sousa took off the jacket and let them have at the shirt (he thought it looked fine, himself). Once they were done, he changed back into his own shirt and jacket, loosely knotted his tie, and went to pay for the tuxedo. The younger Mr Yew brought it out to the car for him.

“I apologize,” he said, “I don’t know what got into my father —”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” said Sousa. “He was just… giving advice.”

“Advice you didn’t ask for. Anyway: good luck at your party tomorrow. We’ll call you when your other clothes are ready.”

 

Sousa’s next appointment that afternoon was with a real estate agent. When he got to the office, he checked his watch: he was plenty early. He picked up a file folder from the passenger seat, got out of the car, and looked around. There was a little square park across the street.

Why not? He crossed the street and found a bench in a shady spot near the fountain.

Car, clothes…. next on the list was someplace to live. He pulled a map out of the folder; he’d been asking around and had circled some promising neighborhoods. Instead of studying the map again, he put it down on his lap and looked around the park. People walking back and forth… water splashing in the fountain… tall flowers in red, yellow, orange, and pink, with big striped leaves… a canopy of palm trees overhead….

...Two young women passing in front of him, one in a yellow dress, one in pink. Their eyes briefly met his; they smiled politely and he smiled back; and suddenly Yellow Dress’s smile was bigger and Pink Dress’s smile was brighter, and as they walked away, they glanced back over their shoulders at him, their eyes still smiling.

He watched them go, the map forgotten for the moment, and felt his own smile growing warmer.

_A fresh start._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading, for your kudos, and your comments.
> 
> I may be doing a couple of more chapters for this fic in the future, but in the meantime keep an eye for an update to [Quo Vadis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3804475/chapters/8475841).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a belated birthday present for @keysburg.

 

Sousa pushed open the door to the real estate agent’s office. The receptionist looked up, saw him swinging his crutch forward, and hurried over to get the door.

By the time she got there, Sousa was already in and closing the door behind him. “Oh!  Oh, I’m so sorry,”  the receptionist fretted. “Are you all right?”

“Everything’s jake,” said Sousa with a smile. His encounter outside with Miss Pink Dress and Miss Yellow Dress had left him with a warm, cheerful feeling that hadn’t worn off yet. “I’m Daniel Sousa. I have an appointment with Mr. Hebert.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll tell him you’re here.” She made the call, and ushered Sousa to one of the offices. Mr. Hebert shook his hand and showed him to a table, the receptionist brought coffee, and Mr. Hebert brought out a folder of his own.

“So you’re looking for a place to hang your hat,” he said. “And you just got in Monday?”

“Yeah. It’s been a busy week.”

“Ah, well maybe we can make it even busier, get you a contract by the end of the week. Like we talked about, you’re in competition with every guy moving to L.A. and every guy coming home from the service who’s ready for his own place. When you see a house you like you’ve gotta pounce. Talked to your bank yet?”

Sousa opened his folder and passed over a sheet of paper. Mr. Hebert read it and looked pleased. “You really do have your ducks in a row. That’ll make things a lot easier for you. So I’ve got a list here of some houses that might fit the bill. Where do you want to start looking?”

Daniel brought out his list. “I asked around for recommendations, and of course every person I asked had a different idea.” It had been a good way to meet his agents and the support staff in the L.A. office, to get a sense of how well they knew the city, of what kinds of things they noticed and what was important to them. “I thought these neighborhoods sounded interesting.”

“There’s a couple of properties in Madison Park. Why don’t we start there?” Mr. Hebert shuffled some paper around in his folder. “You told me a bit about what you were looking for; are there any other… uh… considerations we should keep in mind?”

Sousa pretended to not understand what Mr. Hebert was asking about. “No, not really. If I think of something I’ll let you know.”

“Well, then! Let’s go look at some houses.”

As Mr. Hebert drove north, he talked about the various neighborhoods and new construction and modern house plans and what sorts of people lived where. Sousa paid close attention; it was good to get another perspective on the city.

Madison Park had been a suggestion of the Normans, and as they reached the neighborhood, Sousa could see why they liked it.  It was closer to the office, but otherwise was very like their own neighborhood: quiet, pretty, and a little bit more than what Sousa thought he needed. Judging from the the cars in the driveways, Sousa also suspected it was a little more expensive than he wanted.  The houses Mr. Hebert showed him were among the smallest in the neighborhood, and of those even the smallest was at the top of his price range.

“You’re sure you don’t even want to look at any of these?” asked Mr. Hebert. “I might even be able to get you in to take a look tonight. You think it’s more than you need right now, I get that, but believe me, I bet you’ll be wanting a bit more house sooner than you think. Bring a wife home, next thing you know there’s a bundle of joy on the way….”

“When they show up in real life, I’ll think about buying them a real house,” said Sousa.

They took a spin around a couple of other neighborhoods; one of them had a house that Mr. Hebert was keen to show Sousa , but when they arrived a SOLD sign had already been posted.

“That’s too bad. Ink’s probably still wet on the contract,” said Mr. Hebert. He turned the car to head back to his office. “See what I mean? I swear to God that house was on the market this morning.”

“I believe you,” said Daniel. “Like you said, we’ll just have to move quickly once we find the right house. For now, I need to get back to work.” Mr. Hebert seemed a little disappointed, but he perked up once they’d made plans to go looking again on Saturday.

Back at the SSR office, Sousa checked in with the evening shift and went to work in his office until the dinner order arrived. He ate with the other agents, knocked out a few more files in the office, and finally went back to the hotel.

He hung the tuxedo up in the closet — he’d have to remember to bring in the shoes tomorrow — sat on the bed, and started to undress. It was late, and he’d had his prosthesis on for a long time. His skin looked okay when he did the mirror check, though. He could take it easier tomorrow night — well, not tomorrow, that was that party — Saturday, then, he promised himself. He hurried through his bedtime routine and turned out the light.

His mind turned back to houses. This house-hunting business was turning out to be a great topic for small talk; everyone seemed to have strong opinions on where he should live and what he should look for in a house. Some of the switchboard girls had very strong opinions on Pasadena (fuddy-duddy) and bungalows (dowdy and old-fashioned). A couple of the agents were talking up neighborhoods west of the office (closer to the fun); others suggested east or southeast of the office (less expensive, better location.)

And then what was he looking for? He’d gotten a lot of advice about that as well: off-street parking… garages… big lot… small lot… gas stove… no, _electric_ stoves were better, more modern…. His father’s advice had been to look for the cheapest house in the best neighborhood, with southern exposure for the vegetable garden. Daniel couldn’t see himself having time for a vegetable garden, at least not this year, but maybe he could get in a tomato plant or two. He’d have to furnish this house, too. But one thing at a time....

That’s what he’d told his father when they’d discussed it last week, outside under the grape arbor after supper. “One thing at a time. It’ll just be me, remember?”

“That’s true,” said his father. “But that might change. Get yourself a little room to grow.”

 

He was back in his hotel room early the next evening, getting dressed for the party. Trousers, shoes, shirt, adjust the suspenders; shirt studs and cuff links, waistcoat... He grabbed his crutch and went over to the mirror to put on the tie. He tied it, looked at himself in the mirror, and frowned. He retied the tie, and looked again.

It was really him.

He put on his holster and the jacket, stocked his inside pockets with his new cards and a spare stump sock, and looked at the mirror again. He felt vaguely dissatisfied with his reflection, but didn’t know why. He smoothed his hair one more time and went out to the hotel foyer to wait for the Normans.

They were right on time. Sousa got himself into the back seat; as soon as he closed the door, Mrs. Norman turned around in her seat and effused about how good he looked.

“Think he’ll get attention from the ladies?” asked Norman.

“Oh, absolutely,” said Mrs. Norman. “Though I should warn you, Chief Sousa, they’ll all be married and quite a few of them will be of... more advanced age.”

“And they’ll want to introduce you to their husbands and to their single girlfriends,” added Norman. “That was good that we were able to get to the Coast Guard this morning. They’re all going to want to introduce you to the Admiral.”

He talked some more about who was going to be there; Mrs. Norman told him about what to expect. It wasn’t until they had parked and were walking toward the club that Sousa had a chance to say a few words to Norman in private, catching him up on a few loose ends at the office.

“...And I got a call from Rose Roberts, my transfer from New York. She’s made it to L.A. and’ll be here first thing on Monday.”

“Good. Looking forward to meeting her.” Ahead of them, Mrs. Norman stopped to wait for them. When they caught up, she took her husband’s arm. Together, the three of them entered the club, and Sousa was back on the job.

 

It was past midnight when Sousa hobbled back into his hotel room. He switched on a light and went straight to the desk and sat down. He took out all the cards he’d collected out of his pocket, pulled over a piece of paper, uncapped his pen, and set to work making notes on anything that would help him remember all the new faces and names. _R. Adml Hockley, San Diego, Mrs. green hat feathers... Cap. Sloan, CG, bald, Mrs. net thing on hat.... Horace Hurst, Maywood Invst. Bank, Mrs. funny gloves, USO, Canteen..._

 _Cmdr. Galvan red hair freckles, Mrs. glasses pg. Bridge?_ Galvan got a mental note as well: _Office of Naval Intelligence._

Finally he came to the end of his list. _Cmdr Allison, USN, teeth, Mrs.blue swoopy dress_. He capped his pen, put it down, leaned back in his chair, and let his eyes close.

He was tired, mentally and physically, but he was satisfied with how the evening had gone. He’d never been to an event like that before — mess dress uniforms, black tie, long fancy dresses — and when he’d first walked in with the Normans he’d been almost bewildered. But then he’d gone through the receiving line, and Norman had introduced him to the Admiral, and the Admiral had said something friendly about his military service and his new job, and he’d said something back, and then he was going down the receiving line and finding his place at one of the tables, and it had all gone fine. He may have been the newest guy there, but still, he’d belonged there. In his mind’s eye he saw the dining room again, the glitter of the lights on the china and silverware and the sparkly things on the ladies’ long dresses.... Peggy had worn a long dress to the nightclub, hadn’t she? Maybe even a sparkly one, judging from the photo. In his mind’s eye he saw Peggy sitting across the table from him, wearing a sparkly blue dress, looking up and giving him one of her wicked little smiles. They’d come together.

It was a sweet image, and it was a long moment before he realized what he was doing. He was too tired to be angry or even disgusted with himself. Instead, he started to undress, shooing away any more stray thoughts of Peggy Carter that floated up through his mind.

He went over to the bureau to take off the cuff links and shirt studs, and caught sight of the mirror.  The guy looking back at him looked tired. Even his hair looked tired.

But then, it had been a long five days, and tomorrow would be another big day. He finished undressing, did some quick leg care, and crawled into bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @irisdouglasiana for her help with L.A. geography and real estate.
> 
> * * *
> 
> If you're new to the story: This was originally begun prior to Agent Carter Season 2, so that's why it's taking place in 1946 and Daniel's not building the office from the ground up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to commenter Annie+MacDonald for the idea for the title.


End file.
